


Essence

by ShiningFrost



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Personas (Persona Series), F/M, Friends to Lovers, Healing without Akira, Implied/Referenced Abuse, No Metaverse (Persona 5), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-06-29 11:45:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15728748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShiningFrost/pseuds/ShiningFrost
Summary: In a world without the Phantom Thieves, a secluded Futaba sends a message to her favorite fan artist.





	1. Messages

**Author's Note:**

> I am way too obsessed with this ship.

Futaba shrieks when she sees it.

It’s loud enough that Sojiro pokes his head into her door, worried, and he sighs in relief when Futaba eagerly shows him newest creation of her favorite fan artist. Sojiro admits that it’s quite good, in a supporting kind of way that he’s always done for her. She knows he doesn’t quite understand her hobbies, but she likes that he tries. It’s more than most have done for her.

He pats her on the head and says he'll return with dinner in thirty minutes. Futaba swivels her chair back to the computer, sticking her head out until she's inches from the screen.

She knows nothing about color theory or perspective or anatomy, but even her untrained eye can tell this painting is good. She glances at the artist's username, although she already knows who drew it. It's obvious in the lines, the shading, the pose - they all point to the artist like an IP address would to her (well, if she ever went without her VPN, which was less likely than her trapezing outside naked).

Inari.

She first found him when his painting of a white-clad assassin went viral in the video game-loving community. Before that, his online portfolio was mostly landscape drawings or sketches of other people, but that one painting put his name out there. He's one of the few artists that solely uses traditional media in a world moving towards digital, and the unique style lends him a steady stream of commissions of various anime, video game, and occasional original characters. Futaba has even considered commissioning him herself, but her wealth lay mostly in bitcoin...which was an upmost pain to convert to cash.

Futaba has several of his drawings plastered on her walls, but this one outshines the rest. It's partly because it's beautiful, and mostly because it’s her favorite character in the game. The tentacles grasping around a flailing shadow, the sheen of the green and black spaceship, the snarl of the gargoyle on top of the ship - she is instantly in love.

She can't believe her luck, that Inari and her niche video game would intersect.

The title is simply ‘Necronomicon.’ Ordinarily she'd roll her eyes at such the unoriginality, but she's too excited to be cynical. She scans the description and sees no indication that this is a commissioned piece.

_Dude I never see fan art of Necronomicon. This is amazing!!! Please tell me you're drawing more characters! ☆*:.｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆_

She presses Submit Comment, and then pulls up Inari's user profile. She clicks DM.

**ALIBABA** : What's your favorite character to use??? Necronomicon is mine, obviously.

**ALIBABA** : Some assholes think support characters are boring, but that’s ‘cause they’re too dumb to do anything but bash their way through the enemies.

**ALIBABA** : It's just soooooo much more satisfying to actually strategize. Plus, you don’t need to grind as much.

There's no hesitation as her fingers stroke her keyboard effortlessly. She barely leaves her room and can't form words to anyone not Sojiro, but the Internet is her haven, and she feels none of the awkwardness or tension that a live interaction would induce.

Futaba is just pulling up the game to begin yet another replay when a ding sounds from her computer. She stretches to glance at the screen.

**INARI** : Thank you for the kind words.

**INARI** : I've never played the game, so I’m not quite sure what you’re referring to.

Her controller drops to the floor. She's pretty sure her expression would be very meme-able, and she dives back to her chair.

**ALIBABA** : WHAT.

**ALIBABA** : OMG why would you draw something you’ve never played!?!? It's rude to raise a girl's hopes like that!

**INARI** : I did not intend to deceive. I stumbled upon the design by chance, and the design intrigued me.

**INARI** : The juxtaposition of the gargoyle, a fantastical element, alongside the modern one of the spaceship was what originally caught my attention. One source of conflict in society is the rapid advancement of technology. Each generation sticks their nose up at the generation that comes after it, and clings to the traditions they hold dear. I thought the two merged together in Necronomicon offered a glimpse of the terms they might come to. The gargoyle is smaller, as its time becomes less relevant, but still part of the greater whole.

Futaba’s eyes glaze as she drudges through his comments. She gives up midway - she already understands the gist of the matter, which is that he hasn’t played the game.

**ALIBABA** : Just buy the game. Trust me on this. The lowest review it got anywhere was an 8.5, and that was by a critic renowned for his snobbery!

**INARI** : My funds are limited, unfortunately.

She narrows her eyes at the screen and sends him a link of his own commission list.

**ALIBABA** : You can’t spare ANY of this dough?

**INARI** : The money is accounted for.

**ALIBABA** : Ugh you better be living in a mansion with scantily clad servants feeding you grapes if you’ve already blown through all that.

**INARI** : I prefer to avoid fruits in my diet. While they go on sale at regular intervals, it’s usually when they are just at the apex of ripeness and are just about to descend a steep road to decay. The limited time for consumption does not suit my lifestyle.

**ALIBABA** : …

Futaba flops on her bed, feeling a weight of exhaustion similar to her all nighter speed runs but without the glowing sense of self achievement.

Never meet your heroes.


	2. Tutorials

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rode my wave of inspiration to the finish line instead of sleeping, 'cause who needs to be well-rested at work anyways.

**ALIBABA:** I got you a present!

**ALIBABA:** <link>

Inari doesn’t respond immediately like he did yesterday, but Futaba doesn’t mind. It’s the middle of the day, and she’s aware that most people have work, or school, or chores, or _something_ that forces them away from the internet. Most don’t have the privilege of no responsibilities.

Thank goodness for Sojiro.

...though a wish floats in her head. She’d take it all - work, school, chores, anything - if she could leave her room. She’d tried when Sojiro first took her in, wanting to prove that she was useful before he could give her back to her uncle. It hadn’t worked; any attempt to pick up groceries or bring coffee to the tables at Leblanc always ended with her crying crouched in a corner, hands clapped over her ears.

_You’re a burden on him. Sojiro will get tired of you just like I did, and when he comes to his senses, you’ll be alone._

Her mother’s voice is soft in her ear.

Futaba trembles, and she grips the edge of her table. No, no, not again - it’s been a week since this last happened, and she’d hoped she was getting better. Foolish of her; she can’t get better because no matter what happens, no matter how many times Sojiro tells her he loves her, it’s still her fault her mother is dead. She clenches her eyes shut, trying to close off the world before her mother’s apparition can appear.

After fifteen minutes with nothing more forthcoming, Futaba releases her grip on the table.

Just whispers. She can handle this.

It’s the screams, the visions, that she can’t.

Futaba slams her VR headset on and pulls her headphones over her ears. She picks a Featherman episode at random and blasts it at the highest volume before grabbing all five of her action figures. Her hands mold them into anatomically horrific poses, and a head falls on the floor. She ignores it, and instead spends the afternoon doing everything possible to overload her senses before the whispers can evolve.

* * *

**INARI:** What is this?

Futaba peeks over the screen of her 3DS when the chat bubble pops up on her computer.

It’s been six hours since her mother’s voice echoed in her head. Sojiro‘s curry is warm in her stomach, her Feathermen action figures are back in their proper arrangement on her shelf, and overall she’s feeling much better. She knows it won’t last - it never does - but she doesn’t know what else to do but cling to the moments of peace.

**ALIBABA:** Surprise! It’s the game Necronomicon’s from.

**ALIBABA:** I didn’t know what gaming systems you have, so I just sent you a ROM that you can play on your comp. Now you don’t have to break anybody else’s heart (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

**INARI:** I don’t have time for games.

She recoils, horrified, and reflexively pats her 3DS as one would a cat.

“He doesn’t mean that,” she tells it.

**ALIBABA:** Oh come on. Everyone has time for games! You gotta relax somehow, and this is like definitely in the top three ways.

**INARI:** Any free time I have has to be devoted to improving my art. Given how much education was provided for me, it would be selfish to place unrelated interests over the advancement of my craft.

**ALIBABA:** Omg you can’t draw ALL DAY. Even I get cramps if I play the same console all the time. I gotta switch it up, and you gotta too!

**INARI:** I find that cramps improve my drawing. The tightening of the muscles forces my arm to remain in the proper posture, and the tingling pain reminds me to always be cognisant of proper anatomy.

Futaba squints at her screen, trying to determine if he’s being sarcastic. She doesn’t think so, given the lack of italics or smileys, but she can’t fathom the level of idiocy it would take to actually believe those words.

**INARI:** In any case, even when I am not actively drawing, there are dozens other things I must study - color theory and composition, to name a few.

**INARI:** I appreciate the gesture, but perhaps someone else could benefit from your generosity?

**ALIBABA:** Bruh you’re missing the point.

**ALIBABA:** Let’s say you’re picking a book to read about, say, Egypt. Yeah, you wanna know about Egypt!

**ALIBABA:** You have two options: a book written by someone who’s lived there five years and one who’s never been. Sure, writing a book is completely unrelated to actually living in Egypt, but whose book would you rather read?

**ALIBABA:** I’d bet you all my bitcoin stash that the one who’s actually lived in Egypt is gonna write a way better book than the other loser. You can research all you want, but if you want real depth to your art, you gotta experience it!

The minutes tick by without reply. Futaba can feel all the potential fanart slipping out of her grasp, and she places her console gingerly by the keyboard. This is no time to be dividing her attention.

**ALIBABA:** The Necronomicon pic was the first time in AGES you’ve posted a non-commissioned piece.

**ALIBABA:** You were inspired to draw after just _looking_ at the design. Think of what inspiration is gonna strike at you when you actually go through the story and connect with the characters!

Another minute in which Futaba impatiently taps her foot on her chair, then -

**INARI:** I suppose you have a point.

**INARI:** I do not see how spending my time on trivialities could improve my art, but you are correct in that I have been...struggling for inspiration. I was attempting to power through it, but given the lack of success thus far, I can at least pay homage to another method.

Futaba blinks twice at her screen. She’d been mostly talking out of her ass, slinging the arguments at Inari as they came in the hopes that one of them would stick. A successful strategy, apparently, but the seriousness of the reply is unexpected.

Well, it’s a non-linear approach to achieve her quest’s goals, but the endpoint is in sight, so Futaba runs with it.

**ALIBABA:** EXACTLY. You should have listened to me from the start.  >:)

**INARI:** Lead with your good arguments next time.

**ALIBABA:** Anyone tell you you’re rude af?

**INARI** : Many times, actually.

She snorts.

**INARI:** How do I play this game? Nothing loads when I click it.

**ALIBABA:** You don’t click it, you need to get an emulator and -

**ALIBABA:** You know what, never mind. Just follow this Wiki, it’ll explain it in Common:  <link>

* * *

Futaba doesn’t expect a reply after that. Inari is an aloof artist online, forgoing the multiple social media accounts that many of the very successful artists uses, and it’s her who’s taken initiative in their conversations so far. She drops a reminder on her calendar to check up on his progress in a week and otherwise fully anticipates to not hear from him until then.

It surprises her, then, when she receives a message a couple of hours later.

**INARI:** I might need a strategy guide. I’ve died four times already.

**ALIBABA:** What part? The first boss battle?

**ALIBABA:** Man, no judgment here. They give you a party member weak to ice and then just stick a badass fire demon as your first major battle. Don’t get me started on trying to beat it in lunatic mode. T_T

**INARI:** That does not sound familiar. I do not believe I’m there yet.

**INARI:** <screenshot_103>

The picture is of a lean man that she presumes is the character he’s made. He’s standing outside with long grass to his knees, in a pleasant fenced-in meadow next to a couple of chickens and a cow.

This pleasant meadow is in the tutorial section of the game.

**ALIBABA:** ...omg.

**ALIBABA:** Open up a screen share. I gotta see this.

* * *

 Futaba takes pity on him and walks him through the tutorial, though she first makes him start a new save file and choose the easy mode this time. She’d personally delete her highest-ranking PVP account before she’d play any game on easy, but she understands that not everyone dedicates their life to this. The important thing is that Inari plays the story and gets to know the characters and that she in turn gets more fan art.

It’s more difficult to teach him than it should be, and it’s surprisingly not entirely due to incompetence in video games.

**ALIBABA:** Did your computer freeze? You aren’t moving.

A pause, and she’s about to exit the chat window when -

**INARI:** I apologize. I was struck by the lobsters lounging by the river. I’ve only seen them at grocery stores, in an overcrowded tank and with their claws bound. To see them in an open environment, even if only a virtual one, was striking enough that I felt compelled to compose a few sketches.

**ALIBABA** : You were distracted by _fake lobsters!?!?_

**ALIBABA:** How long does it take you to walk down the street???

**INARI:** It depends on a variety of factors, including season, temperature, and my general environment. I would say I probably walk fastest in winter, when the landscape is more barren and there are less people wandering outside. There is still beauty in winter, of course, but speaking very generally it has less variety than in the other seasons.

**ALIBABA:** …you are a hurricane of a disaster.

**ALIBABA:** Hey, eyes back to the screen, LOOK OUT –

The warning is too late, or Inari’s reflexes are too slow. The camera shakes as a friggin’ _level 2 Pixie_ swipes at him. His health drops to zero, and his screen fades to black.

…it’s not entirely incompetence, but incompetence definitely exists.

After an hour and a half of her help and three more deaths due to being distracted by opening a treasure chest (“the perpendicular lines of the wood grain and how it angles into the perspective is quite marvelous”), harvesting a mushroom (“I wonder if this was purposely placed by the cemetery to remind us that life must function on death“), and looking at a painting in an NPC’s house (“the composition would be better served with moving the light source to the right”), Inari finally completes the tutorial. Futaba only smashes her head into her keyboard once the entire time, and she’s quite proud of that self-control. She must have levelled up during the fiasco.

**INARI:** Ah, finally! On towards chapter 1. I appreciate your aid.

**ALIBABA:** Don’t mention it. Kicking a puppy would be less evil than letting you continue to fail like that.

Futaba watches him play until he goes thirty minutes without experiencing embarrassing death by Pixie and then proclaims him ready to graduate from her tutelage.

She signs off feeling strangely satisfied. She’s watched many a video game playthrough from masters of the craft, and by comparison watching Inari play is like watching a toddler play chess…though there’s more here than the novelty of watching an amateur stumble around. Her single-player RPGs usually contain a mentor character archetype, and she imagines this glow of triumph is what they feel when the MC returns to them as a honed expert. This feeling must be what moves people to write walkthroughs and publish them for free.

…although two days later, when Inari uploads no less than thirteen pages of lobster sketches to his portfolio, Futaba smashes her head into her keyboard again.


	3. Trackings

**INARI** : I’m progressing at an amicable speed.

 **INARI** : <screenshot_104>

Futaba waits for her antivirus program to scan the link before downloading. She doesn’t think Inari would send her malicious software, but she suspects he would be just the sort of gullible person who would unknowingly share an obvious spam link.

The image is a screenshot of his game. She’s actually surprised by how far he’s gotten in a couple days, especially with how adamant he was that all his time should be devoted to art

...though come to think of it, he’d probably be even further if he didn’t get distracted by the animation of water rippling.

Still, Futaba can’t help but smile. Dragging people to her fandoms and watching them become more and more obsessed is one of her greatest ( _only_ ) joys. She prepares a gloating response about how she was right all along, but the screenshot catches her eye again before she presses send. Something about it is just a little bit off...

 **ALIBABA:**  Yo your team’s waaaay unbalanced.

 **ALIBABA:** They’re all ice types. One blast with maragi and you’re gonna get OHKO’d lol.

 **ALIBABA:** At least go grab Hua Po so you don’t get absolutely murdered. Trust me on this.

 **INARI:** I’m satisfied with the color coordination of my current team. Recruiting any other party members would completely throw the color palette.

 **ALIBABA:**  Your color palette isn’t going to help you much when you have to restart twenty times for your next battle with a Pyro Jack.

 **ALIBABA:** How’d you even get this far with that team?

 **INARI:** I admit I was unprepared on my first attempt, thus necessitating your aid.

 **INARI:**  Were you aware that video games are increasingly being considered a form of art? I decided to apply my typical pre-drawing preparation to this game. Whereas I would normally look for references of the subject matter, for this I spent some time looking up various strategies.

 **INARI:**  I discovered a site where you could download player-created mods to alter the game. A quick search led me to one such mod that lets me immediately instakill any enemy upon entering combat.

 **ALIBABA:** _WHAT!?!?!?_

 **INARI:**  It is most wondrous. I can skip over the dull fighting portions and focus my efforts into appreciating the world the developers created.

 **INARI:** Including, of course, the color scheme.

 **ALIBABA:** DUDE THAT’S SACRILEGE.

 **INARI:**?

 **ALIBABA:**  You’re totally right in that video games are an art form. The best kind, in fact.

 **ALIBABA:**  But the gameplay is  _part_  of the art! Creating new strategies, watching your characters become stronger, occasionally losing to the AI! Without all of this, there’s no satisfaction in vanquishing your enemies!

 **INARI:** But I’m here to improve my art, not vanquish enemies.

 **ALIBABA:**  ...

 **ALIBABA:** (ノಠ益ಠ)ノ彡┻━┻

Futaba grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks it backward. She’d scream dramatically too, but it’s 1 AM and she doesn’t want to wake Sojiro.

Goddamn Inari.

* * *

It takes a coma nap twice as long as her average to overcome her ragequit.

Futaba rolls hazily out of her bed and slumps to her chair. Sojiro’s left her a bowl of curry, with noodles instead of rice.  _Experimenting again_ , she thinks as she takes a bite. When she was younger, she’d thought the idea of curry and coffee was absolutely disgusting. As she grew older and her tastebuds died off, she’d come to realize the combination was genius.

There’s only one bowl on her desk, but she knows leftovers will be stacked neatly in the fridge if she needs more. She used to eat as much as she could, often making herself sick by wolfing down bowl after bowl. She’d been terrified that Sojiro would stop feeding her, and she’d be back to sneaking into the pantry to grab whatever she could...knowing that if she got caught, she’d be beaten.

She pulls out the game that Inari blasphemed. Her room is a mess, but her discs are neatly stacked. Keeping her Feathermen action figures clean and her video games orderly maxes her cleaning meter, and she doesn’t have any spare stat points to level it up.

“We’re not all like him,” she tells the disc assuringly. She puts it in the console and pulls up an anime to re-watch on her computer screen. “I’ll treat you with the respect you deserve.”

It’s a lazy Sunday afternoon even by her standards. She codes on her productive days, enjoying everything from changing the colors of a notorious price-mongering pharmaceutical company’s website to ghastly neon yellows to extending the expiration date on Sojiro’s food business permit. He’s told her to stop giving him free rides at the subway station, but he hasn’t caught on to the lack of license renewal letters in the mail yet.

On her average days, she’ll start new games or shows, or share headcanons with her online friends. But sometimes, she just wants the comfort of playing a game she already knows is fantastic with background noise from a show she already knows is great.

Two hours into her marathon session, a video advertisement breaks through her adblock. She turns her attention to her computer to skip the ad and add it to her adblock filters but does a double take when the narrator’s voice rings loudly from her speakers.

“Esteemed artist Ichiryusai Madarame’s newest exhibit opens from 5/15 to 6/5 at the Ueno Art Museum.

Renowned the world over for his innovative art pieces and command of diverse art styles, Madarame is considered one of the best artists of this generation.

Join us for an unforgettable trip to experience a master’s work in person!”

It’s a standard advertisement with a camera panning over various paintings in expensive-looking gold frames, and it’s unremarkable in every way except _that painting there, she knows that art style_  -

Futaba immediately clicks on the ad with a slight twinge of regret. She keeps her adblocker off for certain sites to support her favorite content creators, and this will mess up her advertising algorithm for weeks.

A pop-up website opens to Madarame’s paintings for the upcoming exhibit. There’s a lot of paintings there, but her eyes are immediately drawn to a set of four side by side. They’re clearly meant to be a set, and they’re all some weird abstract nonsense that vaguely remind her of the four different seasons, though she’s not sure how she got that impression when there’s only random squiggly lines on the canvases.

They’re also very, very familiar.

She carefully unpins one of Inari’s prints from her walls and holds it to the screen.

It’s a match.

Futaba grins and scrolls down further.

There’s a bunch of wildly different styles, and Inari’s makes up only a small portion of the exhibit. She’s actually impressed with just how different these paintings are - she’d never know they were all from the same artist if they weren’t labeled under Madarame’s website.

And the prices for these paintings…

Futaba whistles. She wonders why he bothers with lowly commissions when he’s raking in dough like this. Maybe he enjoys drawing character art in dramatic action poses, but the high-brow art community is too snobby to shelf up the money to pay for it.

She copies one of the drawings, the one with orange and red hues that remind her of fall, into Photoshop. Pulling up Inari’s portfolio, she selects a picture of a flame-haired archer and pastes it next to Madarame’s. Side by side, the similarities are so stark she’s sure she can’t be the first to see it. It’s in the thickness of the brush strokes and the splotches of color, in the vibrancy of the saturation and the shadows on the edges. It’d also ace the highest standards of color coordination.

She saves the picture.

 **ALIBABA:**  Now I know why you talk like an old man all the time - it’s cause you  _are_  one!

 **ALIBABA:**  <img_Detective_Alibaba>

* * *

A day passes without reply, and Futaba thinks nothing of it. People are busy.

A second and third go by, and though it crosses her mind to wonder at the lack of response when he usually responds quickly, she shrugs it off.

On the fourth day, Futaba gets nervous.

When five days pass without a response, Futaba pulls up his chat window and frowns on it. She worries she’s offended him, even though she doesn’t truly believe it’s possible. Her previous jibing barbs seemed to completely wash over him, and she doubts he even noticed he was being insulted.

There are a million different potential reasons for the lack of response, the most likely ones due to Inari’s external circumstances rather than some inward fault of hers. And even if there weren’t, she’s been ghosted - and ghosted - others before. It usually wouldn’t bother her, but…

_You can’t even make connections online anymore. How worthless are you?_

_You’ll lose your online friends too, and then you’ll have nothing._

Wakaba’s voice is accusing.

D _eath was better than staying here with you._

Yes, he’s committed a crime worthy of prosecution in Tokyo’s highest courts by downright cheating in his playthrough, and yes, he’s lucky that she doesn't close down his bank accounts as punishment, but guilt still weighs down on her shoulders.

Futaba struggles with what to say, something that rarely happens over the internet. Maybe it’s a privacy concern? ...but the images she looked at are public domain, and she didn’t even try to trace his IP address (admittedly, she has trouble determining why this is so bad too, but she knows that Sojiro would lightheartedly scold her if he found out).

 **ALIBABA:**  Hey, didn’t mean to breach your privacy or anything. Just thought it’s cool that some famous artist was drawing fanart on the down low.

 **ALIBABA:** Promise I’m not going to notify the Ueno art critics lol.

She reviews the messages and feels awkward. She hates the feeling here even more than in her mandatory participation in middle school gym, where her small frame guaranteed she was last pick no matter what sport they were playing. This is her domain, and she should be queen.

She's debating deleting her message and quietly wiping every last trace of her messages from the internet when -

 **INARI:** I apologize for the late reply. I had a lot of deadlines to meet.

Futaba releases a breath.

It was all in her head, after all. She knew it, of course, but lately her fears have outplayed her logic.

 **ALIBABA:**  Gotcha. Preparing for your exhibit, huh? ;)

The pause is just long enough that her fears almost grip her again.

 **INARI:** I am not Madarame.

She furrows her brow at the screen. She’s seen some blog posts floating around about how upsetting it is for artists to always be compared to others, but she really did think it was him...then again, she doesn’t have art training. Just like she can easily see the best strategy for defeating a mob of reinforcements popping out of forts, there are probably differences between Madarame and Inari that her eye can’t spot.

Still...

 **ALIBABA:**  Really!?

 **ALIBABA:**  My bad, then. Looked really similar.

 **ALIBABA:** Thought for sure Tokyo’s police department would be so impressed with my investigative skills they’d make me partner to that detective prince that’s always prancing in the news.

 **INARI:**  He is my inspiration.

She waits for more, but nothing comes. Her shoulders tense, although she can’t pinpoint why.

After ten minutes in which no further response appears to be coming, Futaba opens a program and types furiously into it.

3.095.112.355

A little more typing in which she wholeheartedly ignores the back of her mind warning her that Sojiro would definitely disapprove (and anyways, she’d rather imagine Sojiro’s rebukes than her mother’s scorn) and she gets a location for Inari’s IP address.

It links to a shack in Shibuya.

Ownership: Ichiryusai Madarame.

Futaba stares at the name until her eyes begin to blur. She sweeps her gaze away from her computer, and it lands on another one of Inari’s prints, this one of a pink-haired high schooler in pigtails. She wonders if she should call out Inari on his lies, wonders why it weighs on her that he lies. She can’t really expect otherwise; they’ve barely been talking, and their communication is mostly her pointing out his flaws.

In the end, Futaba closes her program, deleting the traces of her investigation. She feels guilt creeping in again There’s a reason Inari doesn’t want her to know his true self, and she can’t blame him. After all, she would sacrifice a lot to make sure he never knew who she really was.

She goes back to Photoshop and fiddles with it.

 **ALIBABA:** <img_1934>

 **INARI:** What is this?

 **ALIBABA:**  Don’t you know your memes?

 **ALIBABA:** The middle guy’s you, staring at the hot chick of cheese mold as your girlfriend of poignant story and deep characterizations looks at you in disgust.

 **INARI:** The facial expressions have been accentuated to the point of ludicrousness. Subtler ones would be more effective at conveying emotion. Also, the degree of blurriness in the woman in front detracts from the overall composition.

 **ALIBABA:** I thought you were going to wax lyrical on cheese mold.

 **INARI:** I am feeling unkindly towards cheese currently. I bought some cheese recently with an expiration date in a month’s time. Though I saw green fuzz in its core, I ate it anyways, trusting in the manufacturer’s safety protocol.

 **INARI:**  I fear I lost more in bodily fluids than I gained in calories.

 **ALIBABA:**  NSFW tag please!!!


	4. Growths

**INARI:** <screenshot_107>

 **ALIBABA:** Lol crustaceans other than lobsters exist. Can’t wait until you move on to spider crabs.

 **ALIBABA:** Wait, is this in the Frostback mountains? How’d you create a lobster mural there?

 **INARI:** I bought two of each weapon and armor and dropped them into the valley. I then re-arranged them into the lobster pattern when seen from afar. I was attempting an imitation of a larger-scale Impressionist style with self-imposed limitations.

 **INARI:** I quite enjoy the ability to tint my items.

 **ALIBABA:** Bruh please submit this to Tokyo University.

 **ALIBABA:** I need someone with three PhDs to help me determine if this is impressive or lame.

* * *

Inari’s GPS signal moves.

Futaba doesn’t mean to see it. She really doesn’t; she’d exited without saving the other day when she tinkered with Inari’s location...completely forgetting about her nine different auto-save functions. They’ve been a part of her life for so long (ever since she’d accidentally deleted her report on the history of Japanese fossil discoveries after a groggy all-nighter in middle school) that they slipped her mind.

She’d been working on a program to automatically enter raffles when the blinking light caught her eye. She doesn’t track many people - her uncle, in case he ever heads her way and she needs to halt Tokyo’s public transport system while she flees, and Sojiro, because sometimes it takes him a little longer to get groceries than usual. The first time he’d ventured further than the grocer round the corner, he’d come back to her sobbing in the closet, glass shards from a broken clock strewn across the floor.

Futaba lifts a finger to her screen, tracing the light as it moves through the map. People get up and travel outside with as much thought as Futaba takes to brush her hair (maybe even less. Tangles can be stubborn). She plays games with shooting mutants and slashing dragons in 4K HD resolution, yet she keeps her blackout curtains drawn tight so she can’t see the pale cream walls of their neighbor’s house. She once did as Inari is doing, walking past cherry trees and street lamps and fruit vendors daily. She can barely remember it.

The signal stops at Kosei High School. She glances over her code, looking for glitches. Finding none, she furrows her brow at the map. What’s an old famous artist doing at a high school?

Granted, a very prestigious high school. Her middle school classmates aiming to go to Kosei were usually the most talented of her year (coincidentally also the snobbiest) or with the richest parents (actually, _these_ were the snobbiest). Perhaps the rich ones, trying to slip mediocre children past the entrance exams, gave Kosei enough extra money to afford internationally-renowned artists for a high school extra curricular class.

The light doesn’t move, and Futaba shifts in her seat for another ten minutes before her curiosity peters out. Her cursor hovers over the delete button.

She can hear Sojiro lecturing her.

“Sakura Futaba, this is a complete invasion of privacy, and if you must engage in illegal activity I’d rather you tamper with bus fare prices even though it’s not like Inari knows about this, and anyways, even if he found out, he’d be too busy criticizing the brightness level and the default font for the location names to be offended.”

Futaba clicks save and opens up Photoshop.

It could be useful. If giant lobsters ever erupted out of an underwater rift to attack mankind, she could stay safe by heading in the opposite direction to Inari’s signal.

* * *

**ALIBABA:** <img_glorious_masterpiece>

Her hand shakes slightly as she presses send. Inari posted a status after school hours, stating he wasn’t accepting new commissions for the upcoming month. She’s re-read their previous conversations to remind herself this has nothing to do with her detective work into his identity - he’s preparing for that exhibit - but her internal logic isn’t holding much sway over her feelings. _He’d just block you if this had anything to do with you_ , she tells herself.

Still, she wants external validation that Inari doesn’t resent her.

Sure enough, the response is quick ( _told you so_ , her mind supplies).

 **INARI:** ...is the fox being mauled by the giant lobsters supposed to be me?

 **ALIBABA:** It’s symbolic!

 **INARI:** The theme has to be more subtle to be symbolic. You’ve transgressed into literal at this point.

 **ALIBABA:** I’m a beginner.

 **ALIBABA:** That was the negative part of your review. Now you gotta say something nice, for balance.  >:)

The pause is long enough that if she was actually an aspiring artist looking for critique, she’d be offended. She rocks back and forth, watching the three dots appear and disappear.

 **INARI:** My grades in literature were merely adequate. I lack the vocabulary to conjure praise for your creation.

 **ALIBABA:** Set aside some of your money for my new keyboard. I'm going to short the circuits of my current one with my tears :’(

 **INARI:** A keyboard floating in a river would be a much more evocative imagery. There are many potential themes there; for example, the coexistence of nature and technology or the eventual dominance of the earth over human creations. Or whether or not technology removes us from our roots.

Futaba types _But there’s no blood when old farts whine about technology,_ and she is about to send it when she leans back a little too far.

Her chair careens backwards, and she tips over. She scrambles for her table and manages to hit her keyboard, but she can’t find enough purchase to stop the pull of gravity.

Futaba hits the floor hard. Thankfully, she avoids the bedpost (it’s sharp, which is knowledge she acquired after an over-enthusiastic celebration for defeating a level 99 secret boss), but she has to take a moment to recover. She lies still, muscles unmoving except for her chest heaving with heavy breathing.

 _BRRING_...

_BRRING..._

She really should invest in a better chair. She’s fond of it, as it was one of Sojiro’s first purchases for her, but this happens on about a monthly basis. Or maybe she should just get one of those non skid rugs. She found one with a cute cat print online once and wonders if it was recent enough that she could find it again in her search history.

_BRRING..._

“Hello?”

The money Sojiro dropped on her surround sound system was worth every penny. Loud and clear, the voice would be indistinguishable from a person talking to her in her room.

It is also young.

She blinks dazedly before yelping and jumping up. The movement is too quick. She squeaks as she doubles over, fighting the spell of vertigo.

“...was that a cat? Meow?”

Futaba slams her cursor on End Call.

She glares at her computer. Once she’s sure her blood pressure has normalized, she walks carefully to her desk. She kicks the chair as she passes it.

 **ALIBABA:** Oops, sorry about that. Hit the wrong key.

 **INARI:** Did your cat walk on your keyboard?

 **ALIBABA:** Dude that was me. You’re supposed to pretend you didn’t hear anything.

 **INARI:** I was ready to bet today’s dinner on that being a cat.

 **ALIBABA:** Clearly you haven’t watched enough cat videos if you can’t recognize what they sound like.

 **ALIBABA:** You gotta watch at least ten per month, or your license to access the internet gets revoked.

 **INARI:** Cats are very graceful creatures. I appreciate the variety of their furs and the smooth lines of their hunter’s muscles. However, they are also quite commonplace, which can leave their beauty desensitizing. Coincidentally, that’s also why a utopia is unlikely to ever come to fruition. Given enough time, we can become used to anything and in turn always crave more.

Futaba rolls her eyes. Still, she can’t help a small grin as she turns around and brings her chair back up.

When was the last time someone other than Sojiro address her? The detectives grilling her after her mother’s death is strongest in her memory. Hazier are the few times afterwards when she tried to help Sojiro at Leblanc, though she rarely progressed to speaking with a customer. Simply seeing one was often enough to make her run to the attic and curl up into a ball in the corner.

This should be an achievement worthy of an extra stat boost. She doesn’t feel stronger. All she feels is Inari’s voice ringing in her head. It was deep and calm and definitively lacking the hoarseness of old age.

And either he’s spent six decades keeping his voice box well moistened with lozenges, or she’s wrong.

* * *

Futaba wonders how anyone learned anything before 1990. She can’t imagine living in Sojiro’s shoes, trekking to the library every time she wanted to know how many muscles were in a cat’s ear (32) or the name for the fear of being tickled by feathers (pteronophobia).

Thank goodness she lives in the modern era. She scrolls down to the Personal Life section in Madarame’s wiki page.

_Madarame lives in a humble shack in Shibuya, prefering to eschew worldly desires to limit distractions. He does not have any close living relatives and is currently unmarried._

_His second passion after art is the mentoring of young artists. He sponsors the most talented ones. They live with him and learn his techniques, not only painting but also how one must live their daily life to become a master. By providing for their living costs, Madarame ensures that they can focus on their art without having to worry about food or rent._

Oh.

Inari hasn’t lied, then. She draws a deep breath and exhales slowly. She feels like she just shot an arrow at an off-colored brick, revealing a secret passageway to high-leveled armor.

Futaba skims further, past a small list of current students. She looks for former students too, but the wiki page doesn’t deign to mention any of them. None have reached the career heights of Madarame. As far as she can tell, none have even reached middling small-studio-in-the-city status. The website paints a picture of lazy students, unable to deal with the pressures of professional artistry.

She googles each name from the list of active students. There aren’t many, the lack of success of previous pupils apparently dimming the enthusiasm to be taught by Madarame.

One’s a shelf stocker of a local Junes store. One’s a nighttime security guard at a hospital.

Another is a Kosei High School scholarship recipient.

**_Yusuke Kitagawa._ **

_A promising artist under the tutelage of the esteemed Ichiryusai Madarame, Yusuke overcame the early death of his parents to establish himself as the forefront of Tokyo’s young creative prospects._

Futaba pauses, eyes drawn to the line early death of his parents.

_He didn’t kill his own parents like you killed me._

She closes her eyes, but her mother says nothing more. Her eyes open, though she blinks furiously for a minute further until she no longer feels the water pooling in her eyes.

Futaba scrolls down a generic description of his accomplishments and hopes for the future. If he talks in real life anything like he talks over the internet, the interviewer must have heavily edited the conversation. She almost feels sorry for the poor schmuck trying to find enough pause to interject as Inari drones on about the pros vs cons of font sizes on water bottle labels.

The blurb also mentions a completely covered tuition with the scholarship, with an extra monthly personal fund for art supplies.

Futaba opens the last screenshot he sent her. Despite being halfway through the game, he only has 33 gold to his name. She smirks. Inari must suck at budgeting in real life as much as he does in a virtual one, but...it gives her hope. If Inari’s online persona can match his actual one, then maybe, just maybe, the personality transfer can work in reverse.

* * *

**INARI:** <img_Goemon_WIP>

Futaba nearly falls out of her chair again, catching herself with her foot before she tumbles away. She pulls herself up straight. She wants to jump up and run laps around her room. If this was the finished product rather than the preview of something grander, she probably would.

Still, she throws a fist into the air. It’s similar to the Necronomicon painting that first lead her to message him. Goemon swipes with the flower-dappled pipe, and even though the sketch is rough and the colors bleed from the lines, Futaba can hear the air whirl as if the bladed end really is about to strike at her neck.

 **ALIBABA:** Dude this is more like it! ♥‿♥

 **ALIBABA:** This is gonna be so gorgeous when you’re finished with it.

 **ALIBABA:** It’s already like Monet level. But it’s gonna be Van Gogh tier when it’s complete.

 **ALIBABA:**...is Van Gogh better than Monet?

 **INARI:** They are different artists and incomparable. Both are masters of the craft, and I will never achieve a tenth of what they did. But I appreciate your comments, hyperbolic though they are.

 **ALIBABA:** Pfft get outta here with that modesty.

 **ALIBABA:** I’d rather get a 100 more of these than those dumb flower gardens.

 **INARI:** You can have this when I’m finished.

Futaba takes her glasses off and wipes it clean. She puts them back on, but Inari’s words are exactly the same as she first saw them.

 **ALIBABA:** LOL you almost had me.

 **ALIBABA:** It’s no Necronomicon, but it should be the centerpiece of the Louvre instead of sitting in my room.

 **INARI:** You can have that one too.

Her mouth falls open. She gapes, hands frozen over the keyboard.

...he’s insane. It was so obvious, with his long-winded complaining on how there should be an in-game grayscale filter so he can better study the shading techniques without the distraction of color. She’s disappointed in herself that it took this long to realize it. Weren’t all the good artists insane anyways? Inari is weird and exasperating, but just like she instinctively knows which guy to go for in an otome game, she knows in her gut that Inari is a good artist.

 **ALIBABA:** My sarcasm detector is weak over the internet.

 **ALIBABA:** Real talk, you serious?

 **INARI:** Yes.

She waits for more.

Nothing comes, not even the flashing three dots that would let her know he’s in the midst of typing one of his rambling paragraphs.

Futaba shakes her head. Of all the times for brevity...

 **ALIBABA:** Don’t get me wrong, I’m really grateful. And I reeeaaaally want them both.

She does. She wants it so badly there’s a sizeable part of her screaming to just accept the gesture and run.

The larger part is digging into her meager manual of social interactions. No one’s this nice, not without wanting something back.

 **ALIBABA:** But like...why?

 **ALIBABA:** I don’t have much to offer. You want some bitcoin?

 **INARI:** You sent me the game to begin with. This is my repayment.

 **ALIBABA:** That game I finagled for free. You could sell those two paintings for a fortune and buy sixty legitimate copies of it.

 **INARI:** I wouldn’t have played it without your encouragement.

She bites her lip. Her motivations hadn’t been altruistic.

 **ALIBABA:** Don’t you want them for yourself?

 **INARI:** Art is useless when sequestered. Its entire value comes from people looking at and enjoying it. I’d rather not have it wither away into yellow dust, forgotten in my attic.

That’s enough persuasion for her. She gives him Sojiro’s P.O. box. If Inari turns out to be some sort of giving tree psychopath, she can just ship giant spiders to it until Sojiro changes to a new one.

 **INARI:** I’ll have to wait to send Necronomicon until I also finish Goemon so I can save on shipping costs

 **ALIBABA:** For what I’m getting out of this, you could tie the canvases to four turtles with a compass for shipping.

She frowns. Leaving the conversation at a joke seems somehow cheap.

 **ALIBABA:** Thanks, man. I love this game. And your art.

Futaba winces but swallows her nervousness and sends the message. Her words sound lame when she reads it aloud to herself, but she‘s at a loss for anything that would heighten the cool factor. She doesn’t do heartfelt well even over the internet. The sparing of words, the dance of teasing jabs and veiled insults, are far more up her alley.

 **INARI:** You’re welcome.

She clasps her hands together. Her face is warm. It’s different from the heatwave of embarrassment, when she feels like an elephant trampled on her and then took a dump on her stomach. Now she feels light, like she’s snuggled onto a phoenix taking flight over a city she’s recently rescued from an invading cesspit of lizardmen.

Her eyes travel to one of her twenty-six open tabs, the fourth one from the right.

_Madarame at Ueno Art Museum._

She clicks the tab and prints the page.

* * *

Futaba peeks around the doorframe to look into the kitchen, the ad clutched tightly to her chest. Sojiro sits at the table with an eyebrow arched as he scans the headlines of his newspaper. His breakfast is only half-eaten, but he isn’t scowling. The news must not be too terrible today.

Her heart pounds, and her fingers tighten their hold on the paper. She feels her storyline branching from this moment, and she doesn’t have multiple save slots here. She can’t explore both routes, ultimately choosing the better story.

She looks down at the paper in her death grip. It terrifies her. She doesn’t want to go outside, to the world that’s proven to her time and time again of its capacity for cruelty.

But she also knows that if she doesn’t do something, if she doesn’t _act_ , she'll be isolated in her room for the rest of her life. She used to find comfort in fantasizing of never stepping outside her house again, of having groceries and figurines delivered to her doorstep without ever talking to another person.

Lately, that path has also become terrifying.

Futaba closes her eyes and swallows.

She pressed that print button because, right now, her fear of loneliness outweighs her fear of sociability. It won’t last. She has to commit before the scales reverse, and if she spends any more time considering, she knows they will soon.

Futaba scurries to Sojiro before her courage meter completely drains.

“I want to go here,” she says, draping the wrinkled ad over his coffee mug.


	5. Attempts

“You’re interested in _art_?”

Futaba narrows her eyes at the incredulity in his voice. She’s cultured!

…mostly in pop culture, but still. She’s read articles on making animated movies and criticizing same face syndrome.

“You’ve seen my room. I’lll need a ladder to reach the ceiling soon ‘cause I’m running out of space for prints on my walls.”

Sojiro picks up the paper and runs his hands along the creases. “This isn’t the same kind of art.”

“Art is art. If it looks pretty, I can ooh and aww, and if it’s ugly, I can stick my nose up and proclaim my five year old nephew draws better.”

“I’m a great-uncle?”

“No one fact checks these days.”

His gaze remains on the ad. He purses his lips. Futaba raises a hand to her mouth but catches herself before she starts chewing on her fingernails. Sojiro already knows she’s a nervous wreck; she doesn’t need to give him more evidence proving it. She scrunches her face, trying to remember the wikihow page on how to project confidence. Shoulders square, eyes forward, back straight…

Her attempt bypasses Sojiro. He tilts the paper left and right as if this museum thing is a front and she actually wants to attend a super secret hacker meetup aiming to overthrow the world’s democracies and establish dictatorships. Grimacing, she scuffs her foot on the floor, though not fidgeting was definitely on that wikihow list. She still feels like throwing up, but it’s warring with her desire to fling her hands in the air and roll her eyes..

“I just, you know, I…” Bad, bad, bad. She’d been so focused on psyching up for the asking sidequest that she’d forgotten about the persuasion minigame after. She practiced for days when school required a five minute presentation, and she should’ve memorized a speech for this too.

She clears her throat. “I want to go outside again.” It’s not a lie; she wants to, badly, but every thought of committing usually makes her want to raid the nearest pharmacy for Xanax. “This would…I think this might be a good starting point. It’s a museum. It’ll be quiet and not too crowded. I can work my way up from there. Maybe even attend a convention, someday.”

Sojiro smooths the paper down and lays it on the table. He looks down at it with a hand on his chin before breaking out into a wide smile. “If it’s what you want, we’ll do this.” He kneels and puts his hands on her shoulders. “I’m proud of you, Futaba.”

“Don’t get too mushy, old man.” She leans towards Sojiro and hugs him.

* * *

 In the next twenty-four hours, Futaba tells herself again and again that she did a great job, that she made a good decision. Her persuasion roll is a critical failure. She throws her controller onto the floor after setting a personal record of ten consecutive defeats in a shooting game and slams into her bed. She gives up on sleeping when she jerks awake for the third time.

She’s brushing her teeth when bile rises, and she coughs over the sink. Spit, acid, and toothpaste splash over the mirror. Throat burning, she dry heaves until the nausea passes. Futaba groans and clutches the faucet with both hands to support herself. Shivering, she raises her face to look in the mirror.

A small, pale wimp of a girl stares back at her.

She’s not ready. She needs to level up. She needs to put on twenty pounds, grow six inches, and get her wisdom teeth taken out. She needs to play a simulator. Do a virtual visit. She hasn’t even looked at the museum’s maps yet - where are the exits? Are the hallways wide enough to meander through crowds untouched? Are the pillars and decorative plants at regular enough intervals to duck behind at any moment?

She’s not prepared, she can’t do this, this is dumb, she is dumb -

Futaba knocks over the laundry basket when she rushes out. She checks the kitchen first: empty, with a plate and cup on a drying rack. A large thump calibrates her compass, and she heads to Sojiro’s bedroom. She opens the door ajar and peers into the room.

Formal shirts and dress pants line his bed. He owns a lot. She’s never seen him wear any of them, bar that one time he accidentally washed his pink shirts and white pants together and had to wear black slacks to Leblanc for a week.

His closet is open. Fifteen sets of his normal Leblanc uniform hang inside, and large boxes lie on the floor. Sojiro sifts through one of them and pulls out a mint green blouse.

Her own formal clothes. Did he grab them from Wakaba’s old belongings? Her uncle couldn’t have known about them. He’d have sold them as scrap cloth for whatever meager income a factory would offer.

Sojiro tosses the shirt at a small pile. That particular one last fit her when she was ten, but many in the box still should. Her calcium intake is dreadful, and her height’s barely budged from middle school. A neatly folded stack of clothes sit beside the disorderly stack.

Futaba brings two fingers to her neck. Her pulse is fast, but she suspects that’s her baseline. She hasn’t seen a doctor in three years, and she doesn’t remember the results from her school physicals.

Sojiro hums a tune aloud as he sorts and folds. It’s off-key, but her heartbeats slow.

He is her rock. He saved her from her uncle, he weathered her tantrums and her coldness when she was certain he was no different from all the other adults in her life. He never spends money on himself, but his salary funnels her hobbies. It buys her increasingly more powerful CPUs and her figurines and her posters. If she backed out, he would understand completely.

He’d also be disappointed, and he’d never admit it.

Futaba slinks back to the bathroom.

It’s a museum. Just a museum. Who even goes to those? Old people and tourists. The former are quiet. The ones who go to Leblanc are, anyways, and they’re the same type that visit museums. Probably. And the rowdier tourists would be off prancing at somewhere like Kabukicho. Plus, she’s monolingual. She’d understand one word in fifty of any English speaking tourist and zilch of any other language.

It’ll be fine. She’ll be fine.

She mumbles this mantra to herself in the shower.

* * *

 **Alibaba** : <img_1953>

 **Alibaba** : I’m moving to food photography since my drawings don’t meet your lofty standards.

 **Inari** : Photography is not my expertise, but I suggest buying a light reflector and removing the candy wrappers surrounding your mug.

 **Alibaba** : My coffee is DELICIOUS on my yellow-tinted, cluttered desk. >:)

 **Inari** : Coffee has a myriad of flavors depending on bean origin, roasting technique, and likely other variables I’m unaware of. The richness and complexity is indeed delightful to the senses.

 **Inari** : Unfortunately, coffee also boosts your metabolism, so I must limit my indulgence of it.

 **Alibaba** : That’s a positive! Weight management is a booming industry.

 **Inari** : But in addition to the price of the coffee, I would need to purchase even more food to offset the increase to my metabolism. It’s a financially ruinous circle.

 **Alibaba** : Just grab a Big Bang burger for 480 yen and boom! Your calories are reset and then some.

 **Inari** : I prefer to cut those into quarters and freeze them.

 **Alibaba** : You a stick or something???

 **Inari** : Actually, I looked up the nutritional facts. A quarter burger provides sufficient nutrition for a day’s needs.

 **Alibaba** : From a calorie standpoint. Less so from a vitamin/mineral angle.

 **Inari** : Sacrifice is historically a harbinger of creativity.

 **Alibaba** : Okaaaaaaaaay, lemme find you a website to locate a nutritionist.

 **Inari** : I am a very healthy 19.4 BMI. I estimate I could fast for an entire week and still be on the cusp between underweight and normal.

 **Alibaba** : Please tell me you’d eat your sketchbook before you starved like that.

 **Inari** : No.

Futaba can’t wait until technology advances so she can reach through a screen and shake the person on the other side. Slapping would be acceptable too. She screenshots the conversation, in case she ever needs a potion for a quick laugh.

The gremlins excavating the pit in her stomach take a break as she rereads the conversation. Her lips twitch upwards.

Inari is a scholarship recipient at a top high school, but he’s also a calamity of a person. She’s not the only person with flaws.

It’ll be fine.

* * *

Inari’s GPS signal blinks at the Ueno art museum, location 95% accurate within four meters.

_Mission success._

It’s a _success_ , so the clenching in her stomach must be excitement. Definitely not disappointment, because she can’t be disappointed that she was right. Even if her being wrong would mean she could cancel the day’s plans and instead spend the day playing the newest all-star collaborative fighting game released last week…

Futaba bites hard on her tongue, imagining her clamping teeth to be a guillotine swinging at the coward in her. She tastes blood, and she swirls it in her mouth like a war paint.

Inari at Ueno is what she wanted, is why she’s going.

Now or never.

“I’m ready!” she hollers to Sojiro, who’s still changing in the bathroom. “If you’re practicing for Miss Japan’s beauty pageant, you have the next three months to prepare. Come on already!”

“The YouTuber in the tie tutorial you sent me goes way too fast! Hold on, I’ve almost got it…“

Sojiro exits, tie haphazardly in place. She stuffs her hand into her mouth to stifle a laugh at the out-of-place formalwear. He whacks her lightly on the back but grins at her.

He calls a taxi without Futaba needing to ask (she would abort the mission at any notion of public transport). The minutes pass in silence, and her smile fades. She stares at the clock running down. Does time always go by this slowly? It always goes in a flash whenever she starts a new campaign.

She grasps Sojiro’s hand and smooths her silk blouse with her other hand. Her fingers twitch with the urge to untuck her shirt from her pants. She last wore formalwear at her middle school graduation, and she remembers the desire to toss the uncomfortable clothing into the fireplace. Good thing she didn’t, or else she’d need to do clothes shopping. Her appetite for that plummets exponentially the further away the category is from nerdy T-shirts

“We can leave whenever you want,” says Sojiro, correctly interpreting her death grip on his hand. “Or not go at all. I can tell the driver the dog was messing with the phone again.”

“Geez, teenagers are supposed to be the ones complaining about museums. Getting some culture will be good for you.” Her heart’s not in the banter, but she forces the smile back on her face. She’s won’t be fooling Sojiro with false bravado, but she wants him to know she appreciates his concern without actually telling him that. “You can get some redecorating ideas for Leblanc. Reel in those artsy hippie types.”

“Aren’t they usually broke? Targeting them won’t increase my profit margin.”

“That’s why you gotta make sure you get loads of them.” She can talk to Sojiro. Why is it so difficult with anyone else? “Like getting bank interest on a thousand yen is nothing, but put a billion in and now you’re in business.”

“Inflation brings it back down to negative profit.”

“Then go invest in stocks.”

The taxi arrives, and she avoids eye contact with the driver as she clambers into the backseat. She wants to tell Sojiro really, that’s hardly necessary when he climbs in to sit next to her. But he’s already closed the door, and her throat suddenly feels all clammy. Maybe she’s getting sick.

The taxi moves forward. Her mouth dries.

She’s definitely getting sick. They should turn back before she gets the cab driver sick too. It might be the flu. It’d be early, but she hasn’t gotten the vaccine for the last couple of years. Plus, her immune system is already weak from its long isolation. There’s only so much practice it can get in a messy room instead of being outside, in the outside air, with people coughing and spitting and -

Sojiro wraps an arm around her. Futaba snuggles into his side. She sometimes envies the tall, busty heroines of her games and shows, but if she weren’t so petite she wouldn’t fit into the crook of his torso. Her saliva glands decide to work again, and she licks her dry lips. She looks upward at Sojiro.

“Are you alright?”

If she wanted, he would bust the glass of the door to get her to safety. He looks like he’s considering it regardless of her party command.

But as he holds her, her head doesn’t feel so light, and her vision isn’t as blurry. She takes a deep breath, then nods.

“I’m fine,” she says. Her voice is soft, but she doesn’t stutter, and Futaba gives herself bonus EXP for the self-control.

Sojiro is here. With a party member like him casting constitution buffs, she can conquer anything.

…or at least muddle by.

* * *

Famous as it is, the art museum is nothing special from an architectural standpoint. It’s enormous, but the cream walls and the brown roof are simple. Austerity isn’t usually her thing - she loves bold colors and dramatic styles - but she’s thankful for it here. Dull and uneventful is exactly what she needs now.

They stroll along the garden path to the entrance, and with each step her muscles lose some of the stiffness plaguing her the past week. She’s still on high alert (she walks on the balls of her feet for optimal dashing to safety) but no enemies approach as they enter. The NPCs seem content to mind their own business and leave Futaba to her own. The chatter is loud, but since none is directed towards her, the noise combines into a steady drone that she zones out.

Futaba checks her phone as Sojiro purchases the tickets. Now that she’s at the museum, Inari’s location estimate refines further. The light on her map blinks inside the building, at the forefront of the main exhibit hall.

Damn, she’s good. She should add this to her resume. At least one government department should have a use for a super tracker.

Hit points recovered after the short rest, Futaba grabs Sojiro’s hand when he finishes the transaction. The ticket gatekeeper at the entrance rips the tickets on the dotted line and hands the stub back to Sojiro. “I love your shirt! The cat print is adorable.”

“T-thanks,” she mumbles to her left knee. Sojiro ushers her inside before the woman talks any further.

The doorway opens into a room at least twenty times her entire house. She gasps. The marble walls gleam, and the golden appliqué lining the ceiling could be works of art themselves. A large staircase winds upwards to a grandiose ceiling with three chandeliers.

She looks towards the very end of the hall, where the crowds are thickest. Madarame’s masterpiece, the Sayuri, must be there. A man in a traditional brown kimono stands on a pedestal in front of the clustered people. Large video cameras point at him, and a microphone hangs a foot above his head.

The star of the show, Ichiryusai Madarame. Inari is there too. Futaba takes two steps in that direction then hesitates, swinging her head from left to right.

…there’s a lot of people over there.

Futaba instead glances at her map and drags Sojiro to the four paintings in Inari’s style. A middle-aged couple flipping through a guidebook and an elegant teenager in a checkered dress are nearby, but she and Sojiro find a spot a healthy two meters away from either party.

“They need descriptions,” says Sojiro. He squints at the plaques. “Aren’t they supposed to tell us about the background of each painting and the meaning behind it?”

“Use your imagination,” she replies, though she has memories of elementary field trips where each plaque had paragraphs of commentary. She never read any of them.

The paintings are beautiful. Futaba inches closer to the frames, taking care to maintain a respectable distance to the strangers. She gets close enough to see the texture of the canvas and the small splashes of paint she hadn’t seen on her screen. The gradients of colors are more saturated here, more vibrant and more real.

And very much like Inari’s work.

Futaba frowns at the set and scratches the back of her head. She convinced herself she was crazy before, but seeing them in person, on a larger scale…

“Not your style?” asks Sojiro beside her. He’s matched her step for step.

“It’s not that. They’re pretty.” Gorgeous. “Just feel like I’ve seen it before.”

“You might’ve. They’ve advertised this exhibit for months.”

She shrugs. The itch is deep in her skull, like when she only needed one more Shine Sprite for 100% completion, and she couldn’t find the damn thing but also couldn’t sleep until she found it. “Onto the next one?”

They make their way through each section, through pictures of stark deserts and colorful ballerinas and silken flowers. Madarame must have a severe case of ADHD; there’s no other explanation for how he can paint such disparate styles so well. Or maybe he has split personality disorder, and each personality paints his own distinctive way. She continues peeking at the man himself but the crowd only grows, and Sojiro never asks to see what the fuss is about.

Her phone buzzes when they break at a cafe, and she fishes it out of her pocket. A Medjed member wants advice about a tricky bit of code to overcome a firewall. She replies that she’ll get back to them as soon as she returns. She exits the messaging app and freezes.

Inari’s light is moving away from the front. She stares at it, then pushes her sandwich and soda into Sojiro’s arms.

“I gotta go to the bathroom, I’ll be right back!”

Sojiro staggers and almost drops his own wrap. “Wait, Futaba -”

Futaba’s already running, and she doesn’t hear the rest. Her ears pound with running blood as she rounds the corner. Keeping an eye on her phone and an eye on her surroundings is difficult (geez, and some idiots think they can _drive_ and text), but she has a goal and a time limit. With every beat of her heart, she can see the seconds counting down.

She’s getting closer. Twenty meters away, fifteen, almost -

Futaba skids as she almost crashes into a lanky body. Her arms circle wildly, trying to regain her balance.s

“Excuse me.”

She knows that voice, though she's only heard it once.

It's him.

Inari.

She rests her hands on her knees, panting.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t see you coming. Were you trying to reach a particular exhibit? This museum doesn’t close until 5 PM, so there is adequate time to visit each section without rushing."

She’s seen pictures on Kosei’s website, group photos with every scholarship winner for each year. She hadn’t known which student was him. Those pictures didn’t prepare her for the real thing, for the deep sounds of his voice and the raven-blue color of his hair and the sheer height as he looms over her.

Futaba's hands curl into fists. Her heart races, thumping faster and faster, the sound so loud in her head she's surprised she heard his voice at all. She opens her mouth, but not even a gurgle manages to escape. Her throat forms a bulbous knot that grows tentacles and constricts her windpipe.

The silence grows, and this must be getting awkward. Her body trembles. She puts a hand on her forehead and it comes away wet with sweat.

The boy doesn't seem to notice. He has that hazy expression she sometimes saw in Cafe Leblanc customers eating alone, back before she shut herself away. It's a glassy-eyed stare that's the hallmark of someone with thoughts occupied elsewhere. He isn't registering her at all - and why would he? He doesn't know who she is. He's got his own life, a successful life. He takes the train and goes to school and talks to strangers without a second thought.

His eyes lose a sliver of their glossiness as she continues to stand unspeaking in front of him. "Are you lost? I can show you the way back to the main hall, if you like."

Futaba flinches beneath his words. They aren’t unkind, but his tone is distant and dispassionate. She doesn’t know how to let him know that it’s her, Alibaba, and that they might be friends.

The wit that comes to her so easily at a computer fails her. Behind a screen, Futaba is his equal. She can banter and tease and laugh with him. Here, in the real world, with him looking down at her with a polite but puzzled face, Futaba is horribly outclassed.

It hits her like a bullet, how out of depth she is. She feels her mind burrowing in, building walls, wanting to shut the world out.

Futaba turns and runs.

She doesn't look back and keeps her head bent to the ground. She trips over someone’s foot, but she rolls back upright and continues sprinting without apologizing. An elderly guest mutters some variation of “kids these days have no manners!” at a high enough volume to ensure Futaba hears it.

Sojiro sees her coming when the cafe comes into sight, and he meets her with long strides. His arms surround her. She buries her face into his chest as he crouches over her.

"Futaba, what happened? Are you okay?"

"I-I'm fine," she lies, and she knows Sojiro doesn't believe it for a second. "I need...I can't..."

Futaba can't get the words out, but Sojiro understands anyways. He shields her from the onlookers as they sweep past the crowds. His fingers run across his phone, and a taxi is waiting for them outside when they exit. Sojiro carries her into the backseat.

The roads outside the museum are congested, and the taxi moves slowly. Futaba rocks back and forth. She needs her safe room, she needs to be away from here, why can’t this fucker drive faster!?

A dark-haired woman in glasses appears in front of her.

Futaba screams. The taxi lurches.

“Pathetic,” says her mother. “Did you convince yourself you were worth anything?”

Futaba clamps her hands around her ears. It doesn’t muffle a single decibel.

“You’re useless. Why haven’t you killed yourself already? That’s the best way to repay Sojiro’s misguided kindness, so he won’t have to waste his time and his money on you anymore.”

“Keep driving, damn you, I have to get her home!”

She folds herself into the smallest ball possible. Sojiro holds her, patting her on the back and whispering “we’ll be home soon, it’ll be alright” over and over. She knows he's beating himself up for bringing her to the museum, knows that he's hating himself for not talking her out of the excursion. She hates herself for being this weak, not only unable to withstand a visit to a museum (and she's always wanted to go to Akihabara, and the beach, and to festivals, but if she can't even make it through a trip to a quiet museum she'll never ever be able to visit anywhere else) but also unable to tell Sojiro it's not his fault. Without him, she wouldn't have lasted a step outside their house. He’s the only reason she got as far as she did.

Futaba doesn't have the energy to attempt to lessen his guilt. It's all she can do to cling to his shirt and try not to cry before she reaches her room.

She doesn't make it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wish motivation to write would stop hitting me at 2 AM.


	6. Recoveries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ho hum, it’s been a while (the culprit is work). I’m not thrilled at how this chapter turned out, but somehow it’s been over a month since I last updated, and I fear it would be another year if I didn’t churn it out soon ahahaha.

Futaba rolls face-down into her bed and covers her head with her pillow. Sojiro’s hand is warm and comforting on her back. It’s not enough to stop her from wondering if she could suffocate herself with the pillow or if her muscles would slacken as she runs out of air, sparing her.

Even in the darkness, she sees her mother. Wakaba sneers down at her.

“Hiding again? Is that all you can do? You could at least pick somewhere interesting.“

She tries to scream, but her throat’s dry and raw and what’s the point? Screaming has never stopped her mother. Her mattress slumps, and she hears Sojiro’s breathing as he sits next to her.

She passes out. Wakaba is still in her dreams, except this time she’s running head-long into an oncoming car. Futaba finds her voice, and it makes no difference as her mother’s body splinters. Her mother slams into the vehicle, her last words ringing out like a siren. “Finally, my chance to get away from you. I’ve waited so long!”

Futaba jolts awake.

Sojiro is still at her side. He’s blurry, partly because she’s not wearing her glasses but mostly because it’s hard to see through tears.

_I’m not worth you._

She hugs him, grasping at his shirt. He holds her, unspeaking, until the tears stop. She wipes her face on his sleeve and releases him.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. “I’ll help you do the laundry.”

Why can’t she be good with words? She’d trade all her skill with computers and codes for that.

Sojiro shrugs and smiles, the relief so evident that Futaba lowers her gaze before her crying resumes. “This shirt has weathered red curry stains. It’ll survive. Are you hungry?”

Futaba nods. She’s not, but he’ll feel better if she eats.

She turns onto her back and uses the last vestige of her energy to look around the room. Her mother’s gone.

For now.

* * *

 Sojiro doesn’t go to Cafe Leblanc that day. Or the day after.

Futaba doesn’t notice at first, because she spends most of the time bundled in bed, but suspicion takes hold when Sojiro stays home for the fifth consecutive day.

“Don’t you need to work?”

They’re at the table for breakfast. Futaba set up thirteen alarms to make sure she didn’t miss it. She woke up after the eleventh one.

“Best part of being your own boss is you can take a day off whenever you want.” He scoops eggs onto her plate before taking a seat.

They both know he’s lying. Sojiro’s skipping work because he’s worried about her, and he’s lying about it because he doesn’t want to embarrass her. Futaba loves him for it and hates the sacrifices he makes for her when she can’t give him anything in return. She wishes he would think about her less. She’s a burden. Sojiro would deny it, but Wakaba knows the truth and her mother was always smarter than him.

“I’m fine,” she says, staring down at the food. “I know I’m safe here. I can handle being by myself. You should go to work.”

Sojiro’s shadow falls onto her plate. “I’m sorry,” he says after a long pause. “I shouldn’t have - “

“I wanted to go.” She grips her fork, then looks up. She struggles to meet his eyes, then compromises and stares at his chin. They haven’t talked about the museum yet. Sojiro would let the matter lie forgotten forever if she let him. “I thought I was ready. To go outside. I just - I picked the wrong map. Should’ve started smaller. Gotta shoot the ducks before the dragons.”

“I should’ve suggested somewhere better,” he says with a twinge of the self- loathing she’s familiar with. “It’s my fault you - “

“Without you, I’d build myself a nuclear vault and lock myself in it.” Her face warms. She hates being sappy, but she’ll do it if it lightens any of her strain on Sojiro. “It’s fine. I mean, it wasn’t when it was happening, but I made it through it. Because of you. And I’m better now. Really.”

“I am proud of you,” says Sojiro. Futaba finally lifts her gaze to meet his eyes. They’re warm, and she manages a small smile.

“Go to work,” she says. “There’s a Featherman stainless steel water bottle coming out soon. Two liters, so I don’t have to keep running to the sink to refill it during my gaming marathons.”

He snorts.

* * *

 Sojiro deposits a package on her bed.

Futaba looks up from her farming simulator. It’s a step up from the simple mobile games she’s been playing. She’s working her way back up to ones requiring split-second reflexes and tactical pre-battle preparations.

“Is this from a preorder? I didn’t see any new charges on the card.”

She tilts her head at the large box. “Can’t remember.” Her vice after getting into a fandom is going on shopping sprees, buying every related figurine and print and acrylic charm (within the confines of Sojiro’s monthly allowable budget). The more niche the fandom the more trigger-happy her shopping impulses are. In the back of her closet sits a pile of items from fandoms she lost interest in. She’s been meaning to regift them to her online friends.

Sojiro hands her a pair of scissors as she puts the game down and scampers to the package. It’s large and has FRAGILE and DO NOT BEND and HANDLE WITH CARE written all over. The kanji is so precise that Futaba wonders if the writer used a stencil.

She cuts through the tape, taking her time (she once ruined a pillow cover with overenthusiastic usage of her scissors). A swath of bubble wrap lies inside. She digs around until her hand hits a rough object and she yanks it out, bubble wrap falling onto her bed.

Futaba drops it.  
  
A squeal escapes as she watches it fall. She swings her arms at it and misses. The object lands on the bed, bounces up an inch, and rests on her blanket unscathed.

It’s a canvas she’s only seen on a computer screen. She runs her hand along the edge, then yanks it back. Would the oils from her hand affect the quality of canvas? Would it speed up the deterioration of the paints? Her hands itch to google an answer, but she can’t move her eyes away.

Acromonicon. The best scanners at the top museums couldn’t capture the perfection of the painting. She had glimpsed the differences between a screen and reality at the museum, but she wasn’t invested in those artworks the way she was in this. It’s beautiful, and it promptly tops her list of things she would save first in a house fire. Maybe she could get a fire-proof frame.

“That’s pretty good,” says Sojiro, stepping closer to get a better look. “Isn’t this the same game you got so frustrated by that you threw the disc at the wall and broke it?”

“Only cause I was playing lunatic mode, and I was young and inexperienced.” Sojiro chuckles, and Futaba sticks her tongue out at him. “At least the replacement disc was much less expensive than what I was going to ask for my birthday.”

She snatches two microfiber cloths from her desk and, using them like gloves, feels around in the box until she hits another object. She gingerly lifts it.

Futaba last saw it as an incomplete sketch. She hadn’t known he’d finish it.

The angle is different from the sketch. It’s a subtle change, but it makes the entire composition sharper and more dynamic. Goemon seems ready to slash out of the page, and looking at it makes her want to join its army, to grab her plastic sword and swing wildly at dust mites. Futaba covers her mouth with both hands. Goemon wasn’t ever one of her most-used party members, but this painting makes her want to solo the game with him.

“You really like that artist.”

“Yeah,” she says with a lump in her throat. She’s on the precipice of crying, and for once not from being overwhelmed by the world. It’s the same feeling when she watches a heartfelt scene of forgiveness between long-feuding siblings or the death scene of her much-beloved character. Even when it’s a re-watch, it tugs on her heartstrings every time.

Sojiro ruffles her hair. “You’ll have to do some redecorating,” he says, gesturing at her walls. There’s small clumps of free space available, but none large enough for the two canvases. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Futaba nods, but she scurries to her computer instead after he leaves.

Alerts crowd her inbox. In the past couple of days, the thought of interacting with other people, even in her favorite medium, has caused a level 12 firestorm of embarrassment to rage through her, so she’s avoided the Internet. Her absence is noted by Medjed members, her favorite teammates for multiplayer games, and fellow meme artists. She skips through them all.

5/18 17:06

 **Inari** : <video_29>

 **Inari** : Here’s another cat video for your collection. It would be more appealing without the dirt, but by the time I found a bucket and a public sink deep enough to fill it with water, the cat had disappeared.

5/20 20:41

 **Inari** : I saw the cat again. It killed a mouse, but it fled as I approached and left it.

 **Inari** : Rodents are a delicacy in some countries, aren’t they?

5/23 00:23

 **Inari** : <img_Goemon_Finished>

 **Inari** : I’m ready to send it.

 **Inari** : Is this still your address?

5/25 18:06

 **Inari** : Perhaps you are on an excursion in a remote forested area where even Japan’s impressive Internet connection speed can’t reach. I shall send it anyways, so that you can receive it when you get back.

Futaba rubs her nose, thankful the backlight on her computer masks her reddening face. She still winces when memories of the museum float to her attention, but the embarrassment’s calmed to a level 3 firespark. After five minutes without an overwhelming desire to dive under her blankets, she puts her hands to the keyboard.

 **Alibaba** : <img_1978>

 **Alibaba** : OMG I GOT THEM AND THEY’RE GORGEOUS AND I LOVE THEM SO MUCH!!! Ｏ(≧▽≦)Ｏ

 **Alibaba** : Sorry I wasn’t online, had a rough week irl. Thanks for sending them anyways, this has totally made it all better.

 **Alibaba** : Although thinking of your artwork lost in the post is gonna gimme nightmares. ∑(;°Д°) You couldn’t have waited to triple check my address lol?

It’s the mid-afternoon, and Futaba doesn’t expect Inari to be checking messages in the middle of class. Even if the class is boring, she suspects Inari’s more of the doodling-in-the-margins-of-the-page type. She replies to the rest of her messages. There’s a sizable backlog, and she spends three hours catching up.

Once she finishes, she gets a stool from the closet and begins the tedious process of pulling down prints from her walls. She’s not sure exactly where Inari’s paintings will go, but she needs to free up space. She should ask Sojiro to hang some of her artwork in the hallway. It’s not like they ever have guests over to judge his interior designing skills.

Futaba’s changed Inari’s message notification sound to the stat-increase jingle from one of her games, and once she hears it, she sets down the poster of blindfolded androids.

 **Inari** : I am glad you received and like them.

 **Inari** : It seemed statistically unlikely for you to have been able to move since last we spoke, so I thought the risk worth taking.

 **Alibaba** : At least I’ll know immediately if anyone ever tries to impersonate you. You’re something else lol.

 **Alibaba** : Seriously though, thanks again. You sure you don’t want anything? How about some organic cumin from East India?

 **Inari** : Cumin is an enriching spice, but its flavor would clash with my typical food fare.

 **Inari** : In any case, art should not be a mere commodity in a transaction.

 **Alibaba** : Not complaining. Lemme know if you ever need to crack a WiFi password.

 **Inari** : I question the legality of your offer.

 **Alibaba** : It’s cool, I can cover my tracks no problem.

 **Inari** : I will take comfort in your confidence should I ever require your services.

 **Inari** : I am sorry you’ve had a poor week. I hope things are better now.

Futaba pauses. She regrets going to the exhibit. Looking back on that excursion will never happen without severe cringing, but against all odds, the desire to go out in the real world lingers. She shouldn’t be surprised. It’s always easier to be brave in her comfort zone, safe in her room. Still, talking to Inari, reading his words, seeing his art - the longing is there, genuine.

 **Alibaba** : Yeah, they are. ^_^

* * *

 Futaba pulls her headphones over her ears and drapes her hood over them. She fiddles with the lining. The temperature is just low enough to justify a cold-intolerant individual wanting to bundle up. It isn’t raining though; would she draw even more attention to herself by having her hood up? She loves her orange hair, but it’s atypical in the alleyways of Yongen-Jaya. What if strangers stare goggle-eyed at her? Or worse, what if they come up to her and start petting her hair? She sees the occasional tweet ranting about people doing that. She admires the writers behind them, because she wouldn’t have the balls to confront the perpetrator about it, she’d just curl up and die -

Futaba pinches her wrist. Her fingernails are short for optimal typing speed, so the jolt of pain is brief. She pinches herself four more times.

“You’re overthinking it,” she mumbles to herself.

She grimaces. Her voice is weak and shaky and wouldn't put an ounce of fear into a common fruit fly.

“You’re overthinking it!”

Futaba shouts it, as if the blood of dragons runs through her veins and her voice can become a whirlwind to fell barbarians. The leaves of a potted fern tremble and she smiles, ignoring its location beneath an air vent.

“This is a D rank mission,” Futaba announces to the shoe rack. She takes a deep breath. “The goal is Cafe Leblanc.”

The reward, letting Sojiro know that she still wants to better herself - that she’s made progress, however marginal, on where she was a year ago. Maybe she jumped further than her current stats warranted, but he wasn’t wrong to let her try.

Futaba walks onto the porch and closes the door. She takes two steps forward before remembering that she needs to lock the house. The keys tumble out of her hand as she turns back.

Shit.

Futaba flushes. She’s out of practice for these normal-people activities, but shouldn’t they be coming back to her, like riding a bike? She glances at the street, expecting crowds of jeering neighbors pointing and laughing at her.

It’s barren. A jogger runs by with a Labrador.

She slumps. It’s in her head, it’s always in her head. She knows it, but applying that knowledge has always escaped her.

Futaba locks the door and zips the keys into her inside pocket. She drums her fingers on her leg as she waits, watching the dog’s graceful movements alongside its owner (another reason to prefer cats; no cat has ever made her feel out of shape). It’s only one person, but she doesn’t want to increase her difficulty level this early.

After the jogger rounds the corner, Futaba rushes out with short, quick strides. She clamps her mouth shut when she realizes she’s panting like the dog was.

She slows as she nears the main thoroughfare. The urge to return to the house sinks its claws into her skin. Futaba only resists the temptation because a teenager on his phone glances up at her. He returns to his screen shortly after, but whereas Futaba was undecided on the merits of hood vs hair, she knows running back will grab his attention immediately. He’s not wearing headphones to lower his perception, and her lug sole boots, while hardy and excellent for kicking bricks, give her a -2 to stealth.

Futaba clenches her fist and turns into the street.

The days scouting the terrain for this mission were well spent. The sun is below the line of buildings so the sky is darkened, but the time is early enough that the street lights are off. Futaba hides in the shadows as she puts one foot in front of the other.

She’s sacrificing speed for carefulness, knowing that rushing will draw the enemies’ gaze. Blending in with the other people in the street is difficult, like trying to walk slowly down a steep hill instead of running with gravity’s power boost. Sweat trickles down her neck despite the cooler temperature. She didn’t expect this to be so difficult; she had been nervous at the museum, but it had faded with Sojiro at her side until she met Inari. Here, every idle conversation about fruit bruises or DVD prices makes her heart jump into her throat.

When Cafe Leblanc’s sign comes into sight, Futaba abandons her strategy. She grips her hood to stop it from flying off as she quickens a normal pace. If a nuclear pant explodes in her vicinity, she wants teleportation as her resulting superpower.

She reaches the door midway through her fantasy of joining a team of superheroes. Releasing a held breath, she flings it open and pulls her headphones down in one motion.

“Hey Sojiro, I - ”

Futaba freezes. The door hits her heel as it tries to slam shut.

Nope, nope, nope, unexpected boss, she needs to get the hell out of here -

“You’re always rushing places, says Inari, crushing Futaba’s desperate hope that an art student would be surrounded by enough brightly colored hair to render her own unnoticeable. He stirs a mug of coffee as his spindly frame spills out from the bar stool. Airplane economy seats must kill him. “You have an unusual running pattern. Your arms deviate wildly from your torso, not unlike a fish flailing out of water. I suggest keeping the elbows bent at approximately a 90 degree angle.”

Sojiro’s head whips towards the boy. He opens his mouth with the same stern look for delivering sharp reprimands to young kids running rampant around the cafe.

Futaba is faster.

“At least I’m proportional,” she snaps, “not an elongated stick whose genetics are closer to giraffes than monkeys.”

A loud clang makes Futaba jump, and she smacks her hand on the door handle.

“Er, sorry. I got distracted.” Sojiro waves his arms at the TV. It’s announcing an engagement of some rich CEO’s daughter to some rich politician’s son. Unfortunately, the announcement is not interesting enough to distract Futaba from hoping an earthquake will open up a sinkhole right under her. Ideally deep enough to smash at least fifty-three bones.

Heat rises through her. Sojiro’s face is like a middle school student’s first coding project, and she can read both with the same ease. Even Inari could decipher the shock on Sojiro’s face if he was looking at it. Years have passed since she last spoke to a stranger, and it was enough to make Sojiro forget his politeness lecture to Inari. Futaba should be grateful; she would’ve gotten one too.

Sojiro bends to pick up the stack of dirty dishes on the counter. Inari leans forward with hands outstretched towards an upturned bowl, but Sojiro shoos him back towards his seat before he can help.

The bell jingles as she kicks the door open. She bends her legs, ready to sprint away.

“Go to hell. You’re the reason we got disbanded.”

“You saw what he did to the swimming and soccer teams! It was only a matter of time until he went after us.”

“The rest of us were dealing with him fine. It was only you and that hot head of yours that couldn’t cope.”

“Training all the way here out of sight is our only hope of a scholarship, and we’re not letting you ruin things again.”

“You’re just gonna let Kamoshida walk all over you guys!?”

“Instead of letting him break our legs? All day long.”

Futaba clenches her jaw as a gaggle of students approach in her peripheral vision. She weighs the crowd of strangers versus the one person she kinda sorta knows but also completely humiliated herself in front of. She’s just about to take her chances with the crowd when a light’s reflection off a pair of glasses catches her eye.

Sojiro. Her dad.

A place with Sojiro is better than any place without. She leaps behind the counter, clutching at his leg

Sojiro puts down his tray of collected dishes and kneels.

“Is something wrong at the house?” He leans in close to her ear so his voice won’t carry.

“I just wanted to see you.” A sinkhole would be useful so she could bury into the ground (ugh this is so corny), but he smiles.

“Do you want me to kick him out?” Sojiro gestures toward Inari. The angle is steep enough that she can only barely make out the top of his head. He couldn’t have been so oblivious as to miss her flight, but either he really is that inattentive or he just doesn’t care. He’s looking back down at his coffee.

She wants to take Sojiro up on his offer, but Futaba stomps on the selfish monster within her. She shakes her head. It’s not Inari’s fault she’s an idiot. He’s paid for the coffee. He should be able to sit in the cafe.

Sojiro motions to the attic with his head. Futaba brightens. It’s a perfect hideout. No new items have appeared at their house recently, so the attic must be as messy as ever. She should find plenty to entertain herself there. She could even try cleaning.

Still on the floor, she scoots towards the stairs as Sojiro stands. As if nothing’s happened, he says to Inari, “Drink before it gets cold. Reheated coffee is a travesty.”

A clink of glass. “This is fantastic. What depth of flavor! I’ve not had such robust coffee in some time. The coffee at my cafeteria cannot compare.”

Sojiro grunts. Futaba isn’t sure if he’s pleased at the compliment or insulted that Inari would think a school cafeteria was remotely in the same category.

A loud stomach rumble vibrates in the air. A laugh escapes her.

“We could close down a nuclear plant by using that motor in your stomach to power some of Japan’s electricity.“

Futaba blinks at the wood-paneled floor, then clamps her hands over her mouth. She ducks her head. Dammit, what’s wrong with her? She refuses to string three words together to a stranger for year, then a mountain tumbles out in the middle of a stealth mission.

The stairs are impossibly far. Futaba sneaks a glance over her shoulder. Sojiro’s mouth is agape and he’s staring right at her. She glares at him, and he turns back to Inari.

The boy only sighs. “It is my punishment for indulging in the coffee. I knew the demands it would place on an empty stomach, yet I decided to partake anyways.”

So he talks like an old man in real life too. She thought that Inari’s long-winded ramblings might have been a purposeful stylistic choice in writing.

More importantly, he doesn’t seem to register the insulting voice from the floor as anything out of the ordinary. This would ordinarily make her put Inari on an online blacklist for driver licenses (for the safety of Tokyo’s public, someone this absentminded should not be operating heavy machinery), but she’s too thankful for the inattentiveness to care.

“You want a dinner menu?”

“No, thank you. After the coffee, I only have enough to cover the fare back to my room.”

Futaba gives up on reaching the attic and slips into the kitchen instead. She crouches by the door and peeks her eyes around the doorframe. The vantage point gives her a clear view of Inari.

“That’s a Kosei uniform. You came out this far and late to Yongen-Jaya just for some coffee?”

“Not exactly. I was observing people in the Shibuya station when I saw a striking woman in punk-style attire. Her outfit was a pleasing teal and black color scheme. Do you know her?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“That is unfortunate. I wanted to ask if she would model for me, so I followed her onto the subway train.”

Futaba rolls her eyes. Creep. So the teenage boys in her manga were realistic depictions instead of hyperbolic satire after all.

“It was rush hour, so I was jostled away from her by the crowds. I could still see her, so I exited when she did. As I stepped onto the platform, I caught a whiff of freshly baked bread. I’ve found that moving abruptly away from such aromas only worsens the hunger pangs. It’s better to acclimatize naturally to the smells until its effects wears off, so I stood outside the bakery stand for half an hour. The trail was long gone by then.”

…a dumbass creep, apparently.

“I see,” says Sojiro with a tonal neutrality Futaba envies. He wipes a mug in the same spot for a minute longer, then sets it down. “I’ll get you some curry.”

Inari looks up from the coffee, eyes widening. “That is unnecessary. I do not wish to destabilize your business. Besides, my physics teacher passed out cupcakes today for the 97th anniversary of Eddington’s confirmation of the theory of relativity, so I am really quite satiated. The growling abates when I lie down.”

“It’s leftovers from the weekend,” says Sojiro. “It’ll get moldy if I don’t get rid of it soon.” He’s already heading to the kitchen.

Futaba scrambles to a chair by the stove and plops herself on it. Her attempt to pretend she’d been innocently minding her own business was discredited when she pointed at Sojiro. She’d shout Objection! but he wouldn’t get that reference.

“You’ve never kept leftovers at this kitchen in Cafe Leblanc’s lifespan.”

“I’ve been feeling lazy.” Sojiro removes the lid of the simmering pot and scoops curry into a bowl. He scratches his chin, then grabs the largest bowl available from the shelf. He pours the curry from the smaller bowl into the larger and adds several more scoops until it’s filled almost to the brim.

Inari’s conning Sojiro. He must be. A Kosei scholarship recipient and pupil of Ichiryusai Madarame wouldn’t want for such a banal thing like food.

Futaba wiggles in her chair. Inari does seem laughably cheap…and she doubts he has the brainpower to fake frugality to a random Internet stranger on the remote chance they’d meet. He also doesn’t strike her as a liar, but she’s not a good judge of people. You have to be around people to learn, and she’s decidedly not.

Sojiro brings the bowl to Inari, and Futaba resumes her scouting position. They watch him devour the bowl.

“You need more proteins in your lunch if you’re scarfing food like that for dinner,” says Sojiro.

Inari swallows a mouthful. His esophagus must be disproportionately large for his skinniness, since he hasn’t choked despite eating too quickly to be chewing thoroughly. “Proteins are expensive. A swan ran off with my tube of pthalo blue paint, so I had to re-arrange my expenses for the week.”

“A swan?”

“Yes. I was sketching by a small pond. I went to its edge to refill my water bottle, and when I looked back a swan was nosing around my things. I ran towards it, and it grabbed the paint and flew off. I believe it was originally aiming for my sandwich, but foiling its goal is only mediocre comfort when I realized which color it took off with.”

Futaba is familiar with Inari’s weirdness. Sojiro is not. He opens and closes his mouth, and she can almost hear the neurons firing as Sojiro decides which part most warranted a response.

“Drag yourself to a hospital if you start having massive diarrhea. I’m pretty sure no body of water in Tokyo is safe for untreated drinking.”

“It hasn’t been an issue yet.” Inari sets his spoon down with a gentle clink. “I bulk-ordered disinfection tablets when I tried to sequester myself in Shinjuku Gyoen for a week. I thought immersion in nature away from the distractions of the modern era would be beneficial to my painting productivity. I did not realize the park closes overnight.”

“That’s very, er, tragic.”

“I was distraught at the time, but at least the disinfection tablets are cheaper than bottled water. Tap water is cheaper still, but the tablets will do if I’m not near a source and cannot take the time to find one, for fear of interrupting the flow of artistic creativity.”

“You take your art very seriously,” says Sojiro. “That’s quite admirable.” Futaba is pretty sure Sojiro means stupid, but he’s polite to customers.

“Art is my life.” His words are quick, excited. “There is nothing more wondrous than the creation of beauty that touches another’s soul.”

“I went to an exhibit recently.”

Yusuke sits straighter. “Which one? I am partial to the traditional Japanese artists, but I’ve been studying Kusama Yayoi’s art lately. Her usage of color is riveting, and I’m attempting to use it to embolden my own color choices.”

“No, that recent exhibit at Ueno, by Madarame. The one they’ve been advertising everywhere.”

Inari looks to the end opposite the TV, to the blank wall by the cash register. His entire body is suddenly rigid, like a rabbit hearing the distant echo of a snake’s rattle. One of his feet hits the floor as he moves to stand.

“He is a fantastic artist,” says Inari in a voice that Futaba strains to hear. She might have missed it if Sojiro hadn’t cleaned the wax out of her ears earlier that month.

She’s not good with people, but she thinks that must be how she looked when she needed to leave the museum. The same demon that made her utter the first two sarcastic remarks possesses her again, except she’s far less skilled in giving comfort than dishing out insults. Sojiro’s great at comfort, but he isn’t noticing.

Futaba closes her mouth. What would she even say? Nothing that would feel genuine when shouted from the kitchen. She doesn’t even know what’s upset him. Lingering stress of helping Madarame prepare for the exhibit, maybe.

“Thank you for the food,” says Inari. His voice is once again even and controlled, and Futaba wonders if she imagined it all. “I will pay you back when I get some income.”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Sojiro, shaking his head. “You’ve saved me from having to throw out the food. You know your way back to the station?”

Inari does. He bows to Sojiro and leaves.

* * *

 Inari’s commissions email is public, which is downright tragic for cybersecurity. Futaba prefers a challenge, but she doesn’t complain about the simplicity of this hacking. The itch is back, a harrowing need to know. She’s had these drives before, forces suppressing her appetite and fatigue until she sates her curiosity. They usually aren’t this strong. The last time it was, she had just started learning Python and threw a fit when her mother forced her to turn off her computer.

Sojiro doesn’t need to drag her away from her screen this time. Mere minutes pass before she links the email to a Paypal account. A little more digging connects it to a bank account under the name Ichiryusai Madarame. Every cent given to Inari’s Paypal has been sent to Madarame’s savings.

Futaba eyes Madarame’s name. She pulls up her own online banking account. It’s attached to Sojiro’s, but it displays her own name.

Madarame’s taking care of the money for Inari. Inari is horrible with money, so he’s lucky that someone’s managing at least some of it for him.

She purses her lips and looks into Madarame’s transaction history.

A lot of it goes to restaurants that Tabelog says are extraordinary and expensive. Some of it goes to a sketchy maid service. There’s a lot of money in there - hot damn, a _ton_ of money. Enough to ensure a teenager wouldn’t need to rely on a strangers’ charity for dinner. Hell, it was enough to hole up somewhere better than a shack, even if Madarame lives there because he doesn’t care about possessions. Futaba knows Madarame doesn’t because the fact was plastered all over the museum. She wonders if those statements needed to be fact checked as she scrolls through expense after obscene expense.

Futaba exits and looks through Inari’s portfolio, the overwhelming majority of them commissions. His words flash in her mind - that art shouldn’t be a commodity.

Hypocrisy isn’t a stretch for Inari’s character. He isn’t exactly self-aware. Still…

Futaba clutches her head. She picks up her phone and and sits on her bed. Scanning her bookmarks of recently updated manga, Futaba selects one at random.

After reading the same four panels for fifteen minutes, she groans and lies down.

Goemon and Necronomicon hang directly in front of her. She hasn’t decided their permanent location yet. Futaba likes seeing them right when she wakes up. Getting out of bed takes her longer than brushing her teeth, putting on clothes, and showering combined so she’s looking at the paintings for a while in the mornings (or, more likely, the mid afternoon that’s her normal waking time). She spends most of her day near her computer though, so she might switch them over to that wall.

Futaba searches for the winter-themed painting she saw at Ueno and enlarges it to fill her screen. She holds her phone up, next to the painting of Goemon.

When they’re side by side, it’s obvious. The same person painted them both.

She remembers all of the different paintings at the exhibit. So many different styles were there, and they were proof Madarame was a true master of art. None of his students have reached that glory. Her jaw twitches.

 **Alibaba** : You didn’t upload Goemon to your portfolio. You keeping any other art gems hidden from me? (‘◇’)?


	7. Confrontations

**Inari** : I do not have much time for projects outside of my schoolwork.

 **Alibaba** : Kaaaaay.

 **Alibaba** : Where does all your money go? You keep talking like you’re broke but you should’ve had a small fortune with all those commissions.

 **Inari** : Art supplies are unfortunately expensive. I’ve considered transitioning into a digital format, but with the high start-up costs of a tablet combined with having to learn a new medium, I’ve been unable to justify it.

 **Alibaba** : Gotcha.

* * *

When Futaba first looked up Madarame, he had three students. Wikipedia now lists only Kitagawa Yusuke. She digs through Wiki’s edit history and records every name. The list is long. If they all still lived in his shack, he would’ve had to expand it to five stories minimum.

For each student, Futaba finds their rental history, their employment for the last decade, and the locations of their immediate families. There are no Pixiv or Deviantart accounts, no tumblrs or twitters with original art. Despite the years studying art (and they must have been passionate to agree to live in that dump of a shack), not a single person has posted a drawing since leaving Madarame.

One student committed suicide four years ago. Her chin trembles as she reads the eulogy.

“ _Damn, your mother must have hated you a lot to kill herself over it,” says a policeman dressed head to toe in black. He chuckles, tossing the suicide note at her. “I just dump my kids with their mother when I want to get rid of ‘em.”_

Futaba sets her jaw and hacks the hospital’s medical records.

_History of Present Illness: Ito Yamato is a 36 year old male with a history of depression who presents with multiple stab wounds that appear to be self-inflicted._

_Medication List: Fluoxetine 40 mg daily (pharmacy reports patient has not picked up since last December)_

_Labs:_  
_\- BP: 95/46_  
_\- HR: 142 beats/min  
_ _\- RR: 38 breaths/min_

_The patient has sustained heavy blood loss and is extremely weak and confused. He does not recognize his surroundings and keeps repeating ‘He stole everything’._

A heaviness fills her heart. She hopes Ito Yamato found peace but doubts it. Madarame is still out there, fame untouched.

 **Alibaba** : Hey, I heard you used to study under Madarame! He saw my art and offered to mentor me. How’d you enjoy your time with him?

Futaba sends her question to every email address and social media platform she can scrounge up.

While she waits, she scours google images and discovers one drawing from Ito online, a mascot for a contest that won second place. Futaba opens one window with that drawing enlarged and looks through Madarame’s laden portfolio in another.

She doesn’t find any similarities. Madarame has a lot of artwork (too much artwork for one person to produce) and the cutesy chibi is too different from the highbrow art pieces for her untrained eye.

She searches for more art from the former pupils and unearths two: a watercolor of a bandana-wearing fox on display at a shrine and a portrait of a detective with red shades hanging at the Konan police station. A Medjed member puts her into contact with an art connoisseur, who agrees to compare the paintings in exchange for cracking her lost bitcoin password.

Futaba is cursing the asshole who decided bitcoin keys should be a 256-bit number when she receives a message.

 **Natsuhiko** : Don’t do it.

Futaba checks her excel document. Nakanohara Natsuhiko, a worker at Shibuya’s ward office. He’d studied under Madarame for a decade before abandoning art and doing a 180 in his career, which was the typical pattern for Madarame’s students.

 **Alibaba** : Why not? Madarame’s had his work displayed everywhere, I’m sure I could learn so much! ^_^

 **Natsuhiko** : He’s not good at teaching. He’ll work you to the bone and drain all creativity you’ve ever had.

 **Alibaba** : Any particular example or is he just tough? I’ve worked with some pretty demanding teachers before. I think I could handle it!

 **Natsuhiko** : You don’t want to get sucked in. If you don’t follow his orders or try to escape, he’ll destroy any pursuit of an art career outside him.

 **Natsuhiko** : Find someone else, anyone else.

* * *

 Futaba makes her bed, folding her blankets over and smoothing out the wrinkles. It’s crooked but an improvement over its usual haphazard mess. She fluffs her pillow. She doesn’t need to, since she could fall asleep on a moldy log, but so long as she’s stalling she might as well be productive.

After the pillow is suitably voluminous, Futaba looks around the room. She’s dusted her action figures, wiped her frames clean, and even hand washed her laundry (Sojiro had dropped his #1 Dad mug when he saw her stooped outside the backyard door, wringing the soapy water out of her T-shirts). No other chores jump out and she debates going into the living room to clean.

…best not to do that. Sojiro’s arteries might not handle the spike in blood pressure.

With no remaining excuses to procrastinate, she sits at her desk. She’s going to come across as a creep, but at least she doesn’t stalk hot women throughout the city to draw them.

 **Alibaba** : Don’t freak, but I know you’re Kitagawa Yusuke, student of Kosei High.

Futaba taps a finger on her desk. The sound reverberates through the wood in time with the seconds on her clock. Urrghh what’s taking him so long, she knows he’s active right now…

She winces at the pictures of Necronomicon and Goemon that she moved from her bedside. She wants to be the person Inari thinks she is, the person worthy of such beautiful pieces of art.

Even though she’s waiting for the notification sound, she jumps when she hears it. Swallowing hard, she reads the message.

 **Inari** : How do you know that?

 **Alibaba** : I rolled a nat 20 on my perception check. They should just hand Shirogane’s ace detective moniker to me.

 **Inari** : I see.

That was not the swear-laden version of Sojiro’s privacy lectures that she expected.

This _was_ Inari. He accepted weirdness unquestioningly. A small grin fights through her nerves onto her face.

 **Inari** : Will you reveal your identity to me then?

 **Alibaba** : Use your wits and figure it out yourself like I did ;)

 **Alibaba** : But later.

 **Alibaba** : Right now, you need to ditch Madarame.

 **Inari** : Pardon?

 **Alibaba** : Madarame. That jackass art teacher whose hole-infested roof you’re living under.

She doesn’t have proof it’s hole-infested, but the pictures from google maps don’t look great.

 **Inari** : Madarame is a noble person, and I ask that you do not blemish his name.

 **Alibaba** : You serious bruh???

 **Alibaba** : You hear what happened to Ito Yamato?

 **Inari** : I am uncertain what path he chose after leaving.

 **Alibaba** : He’s dead, offed himself four years ago.

Futaba regrets the words right after she sends them, but the ‘seen’ confirmation pops up before she can edit them into something gentler. She doesn't know how close they were, but were their roles reversed, she wouldn't have wanted the news delivered in such a callous manner even if Ito was a mere acquaintance.

But she’s committed, so she sends him Yamato’s medical records.

Futaba then removes the clock from her taskbar because she keeps staring at it.

Time doesn’t go faster without it. Futaba fidgets and grabs the legs of her chair, clenching her fingers around them to stop herself from typing more. Inari deserves time to process the information.

 **Inari** : I am very sorry to hear that. Yamato was a good person with a lot of talent. I had hoped he found happiness elsewhere.

 **Alibaba** : It’s awful.

 **Alibaba** : That’s why you need to get away from Madarame pronto, before he does the same to you.

 **Inari** : Madarame has cared for me since I was a child. He has always treated me well, and I wouldn’t have decided to pursue an art career without him.

Futaba growls at her computer. Why is Inari playing dumb? He can’t like Madarame mooching off him. She got pissed off when someone copied her code for a mod, and that was for a video game. This was a career, and though Futaba loves her games, Inari loves his art more.

 **Alibaba** : <img_THESE_ARE_THE_SAME>

This is her trump card, her proof. Inari’s personal paintings and the art Madarame calls his own, side by side.

 **Alibaba** : I’ll give you a hint to my ID. I am not an artist, but even I can tell these were done by the same hand. YOUR hand.

 **Alibaba** : I don’t know why you’re letting Madarame take the credit for your stuff, but I bet my highest karma’d reddit account he did the same to everyone else.

 **Alibaba** : It must suck to want to draw, to think you’re gonna learn from a master only to have him steal your work and get the glory for it.

 **Inari** : Madarame saved my life after my mother died. I owe him everything.

 **Inari** : Drop this.

She scowls. “No, I damn will not!”

 **Alibaba** : Have you followed the careers of Madarame’s other students? No one’s become an artist! They’re not even drawing for fun. Look at what happened to Ito - I don't want to read your name in an obituary!

Futaba slams the enter key.

**< You are not authorized to send this user private messages>**

Futaba’s mouth dries. She reads the message again, hits the back button and refreshes the page.

**< You have been blocked from viewing this account at the request of this user>**

Her hands slip from the keyboard and fall into her lap. She clasps her hands, wringing them together as she reads and re-reads the message.

Inari has blocked her.

Her mind is fuzzy, like she just woke up from a too-long nap. She needs a double shot of espresso, but she can’t move.

All she’d wanted was to help Inari, to reach out and make things better because the boy that came to Cafe Leblanc was not happy.

And he’d blocked her.

She’d been blocked - and blocked others - before. It was something she loved about the Internet; if anyone tried to hurt her there, she could cut them out of her life.

A sudden hot flash of anger drives away the cloud in her mind. Futaba bares her teeth and moves her hands apart with a deliberate slowness. Despite her short nails, each hand has small indentations where they’d been digging into her skin.

Inari doesn’t want her aid. He wants to languish under Madarame’s thumb forever, doomed to a pitiful career underneath the famous artist’s shadow. His call.

But she’ll be damned if she lets injustice slide.

 **Alibaba** : Confession: I lied!

 **Alibaba** : I know Madarame’s a dickhead who’s been stealing his students’ art and saying he did them.

 **Alibaba** : I’ve been gathering proof to bring his ass down.

 **Natsuhiko** : Nothing will happen. Madarame has too much power.

 **Natsuhiko** : Yamato went to the police, and they said he was jealous of Madarame’s talent.

 **Alibaba** : If I can get the law enforcement to listen, will you testify against Madarame?

 _Please_.

A long pause. Futaba is about to give up and try with someone else when Natsuhiko finally answers.

 **Natsuhiko** : OK, I will.

* * *

Alibaba,

Thank you for retrieving my bitcoin key in a timely manner. My wife kept asking when we were selling, and I fear she was getting suspicious when I continuously deferred.

For your request, the fox watercolor shows remarkable similarity to Madarame’s _Locust_ series. Aside from the same color scheme, the lineart has an almost identical weight, and the variegated wash technique between the paintings is near indistinguishable.

The other painting was more difficult, since Madarame paints few portraits and none resemble yours. Artistically, your painting best matches Madarame’s _Basilisk_. They have the same angular strokes and usage of a red light source. Given the difference in subject matter, I wouldn’t have noticed without close examination.

I assume you requested me to compare these in the hopes they were Madarame originals. Unfortunately, your paintings are not in the index of his completed work. Given Madarame’s well-known desire to share the beauty of his art, I do not believe he would have side pieces not publicly registered. My best guess is a dedicated copycat hoped to trick you into overpaying for these works.

If you require identification of other paintings, you need only ask. Thus far I have obtained the better half of our bargain, and I would never want to take advantage of a member of Medjed.

Sincerely,

Suzuki Aito  
Curator for Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum

* * *

Going to the police is out of the question. Japan has one of the lowest crime rates in the world, and some of that must be due to their efforts.

But Futaba remembers towering figures with scornful eyes, remembers them laughing as they read aloud her mother’s suicide note, remembers them bringing her back to her uncle’s house the one time she had tried running away.

She doesn’t trust them.

Futaba pulls up Tokyo’s website for the Ministry of Justice. She scrolls through the pages, learning more about Japan’s justice department than she ever did in school. Ignoring the directory of police stations, Futaba settles on a listing for prosecutors.

Prosecutors pursue justice and ensure bad guys go, and stay, in jail. They might have been the villains in her lawyer visual novel but only because her clients in the game were innocent.

Madarame is not.

Futaba reads the high-profile court cases. A gang leader, a domestic violence abuser, a millionaire committing tax fraud. These cases should be interesting, but the author must have written so many articles that she no longer bothered with descriptive storytelling. Futaba ends up skimming them and tallies the wins for each prosecutor.

After a hundred of the most recent cases, Futaba calculates the individual win percentage. She deletes the bottom half from her list and plugs the remainder into her online randomizer. It picks prosecutor Niijima Sae, most famous for bringing down the mob boss Kaneshiro Junya.

Futaba hesitates.

She can hack the government website and turn it into a porno. That’s easy. Reaching out to a stranger is not. She can still forget all this, can still go back and get rid of her research. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s wasted days. Time is something she has plenty of.

But images flash in her mind. Inari’s body on a kitchen floor, covered in stab wounds like Ito’s. A corpse in the morgue with rope burns around the neck. Lying unmoving in a hospital bed with a fatal concentration of Tylenol in his blood.

Futaba steels herself.

Sae’s cell phone number has layers of protections over it. They’d be decent protection against a mediocre hacker.

 **Alibaba** : I have evidence of a crime.

The response comes seconds after her text.

 **Sae** : Who is this? How did you get my number?

 **Alibaba** : Unimportant.

She almost sends an emoji but decides to delete it. This is one of the youngest prosecutors in Tokyo with one of the highest win rates. Sae didn’t get to where she was through fondness of emoticons.

 **Alibaba** : The artist Ichiryusai Madarame has been plagiarizing his students’ artwork and claiming them as his own.

 **Sae** : I have the resources to track you down if you obtained my number illegally, which you did because I have not given my number to any new parties for months.

 **Alibaba** : I’m good at finding information. I’m not going to share your number to robocall lists.

 **Sae** : I will pursue the full extent of the law against you for this invasion of privacy.

Futaba snorts. Sae’s digital protection was good, but Futaba’s is magnitudes better.

 **Alibaba** : Okay sure, I’m super duper sorry but this is important.

 **Alibaba** : I’m worried about the safety of Madarame’s pupil Kitagawa Yusuke.

 **Alibaba** : One student has already committed suicide, and if we don’t act soon, I’m afraid Yusuke will be the second.

 **Sae** : Your accusations are ludicrous.

 **Sae** : Madarame is an outstanding individual. He’s donated hundreds of thousands of yen to the police department.

 **Alibaba** : I’ve got proof! And a witness!

 **Alibaba** : Here, look at this: <img_Exhibit_1>

No reply.

She pings Sae’s phone. Nothing returns; Sae’s phone is either dead or turned off.

Futaba slams her fist downwards.

She shouldn’t be surprised. The police hadn’t helped her. Shame on her for believing a prosecutor would be any different. These adults were all the same, people who’ve forgotten that others needed help, needed protection. They didn’t care for anything besides their personal gain and refused to see past their biased little bubble. In a just world, people like Sojiro would be the majority.

This isn’t a just world.

Futaba buries her face in her hands and slumps onto her desk.

* * *

 An eternity later, Futaba’s phone buzzes. She hasn’t moved since Sae became MIA, and she’s clutching her phone so hard that the vibrations shake her entire arm. Blinking back tears, because she’ll be damned if she cries due to some asshole stranger, she checks her messages.

 **Sae** : What proof do you have of Madarame’s crimes?

Futaba tosses her phone at the wall. Its shockproof case bounces onto the floor with a satisfying thump.

She glowers at it, then retrieves it with a swipe of her right hand. Sae’s playing with her, and Futaba should ignore her like she’d ignore the teenage trolls in multiplayer games or the comments section for a YouTube video. Every time she’s engaged, she’s regretted it. She’s long had thick skin on the Internet

But this is real life, and she wants to fight. Her lips curl into a snarl. Sae might be a top prosecutor, famous and smart and oh so enviable, but in 21st century Japan, nothing is untouched by technology. Futaba can make Sae’s life hell.

 **Alibaba** : Lol you want me to spill my guts now so you can go warn your precious Madarame eh?

 **Alibaba** : Go fuck yourself.

 **Sae** : That is quite unnecessary.

 **Alibaba** : 凸(>⌒<)凸

 **Sae** : …

 **Sae** : I suppose given Sae’s reaction, I cannot blame your words if you have the knowledge you claim to.

 **Alibaba:**  Talking in third person is a sign of insanity. ┌П┐(►˛◄’!)

 **Sae** : Please stop that.

 **Sae** : I am not Sae. She gave me her phone after I offered to bring it to the informational security department.

 **Sae** : My sister has several large cases and does not have time for unrelated matters. However, if you truly have evidence of criminal activity, I will hear you out.

 **Sae** : My name is Niijima Makoto.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only took 20K words to add another phantom thief. :D;


	8. Quests

Niijima Makoto, president of Shujin Academy’s student council. Her portrait shimmers on the front page of Shujin’s website.

Futaba discovers nothing to mar Makoto’s exemplary record. Makoto is top of her class - and has been since junior high. Her teachers’ testimonials sing praises about her work ethic and intelligence. No absences from school for sickness, no speeding tickets on her motorcycle license.

And yet, she’s going behind her esteemed sister’s back for a stranger. Supposedly.

Futaba scours Makoto’s texts. The bulk are curt messages from Sae, ordering specific groceries or informing she’ll be late coming home. Futaba doesn’t find any evidence that Makoto has ever contacted Madarame, so she checks off Spy for Madarame as a possible motive.

That leaves Attention Seeker, Troll, and Good Cop/Bad Cop Duo with Sae. She’ll think of more after a nap recharges her mana.

 **Alibaba:** Why do you want in on this mission?

 **Makoto:** Is it not enough that I do?

 **Alibaba:** No.

Futaba glares at the three dots blinking besides Makoto’s name. Her face darkens the longer Makoto types.

She uses the time to dig deeper into Makoto. The honors student has a resume uploaded on BizReach. It lists an email address.

Makoto’s inbox is organized into folders including Bills, Receipts, and every school subject. She has zero unread messages (Futaba has over 4K on her least-used account).

Futaba clicks on an unnamed folder and selects a random email inside.

_You’re such a shit student council president._

Her eyebrows shoot upwards, wobbling her glasses.

_Why don’t you do something about Kamoshida!? All you care about is your precious recommendation letters. I hope that pretty little collar Kobayakawa keeps around your neck chokes you._

Futaba checks another email, which is similar in tone but with a lot more swearing. Makoto hasn’t answered any of them.

Kamoshida. The name is familiar.

A Google search pops up a smirking man with bushy eyebrow. The image jolts her memory. Futaba had watched his opening volleyball games in the Olympics. She’d yawned and begged her mother to change it to esports. Though Wakaba was engrossed with Kamoshida’s progress to glory and Futaba’s shooting game tournament was only in the group stages, her mother had changed the channel for her.

 **Makoto:** I find it troubling when authority figures, who have the power to stop injustice, choose to stand by instead.

The sentence is too short for how long Makoto took to wrote it, even if she had a third grader’s word per hour typing speed.

 **Alibaba:** What’s up with Kamoshida?

The wait is longer.

Futaba doodles a stick figure of a kaiju crushing Sae in its claws. The drawing gives her the same satisfaction as imagining Makoto’s stupefied face. She saves it.

 **Makoto:** What do you know about him?

 **Alibaba:** Same amount as you do.

A bluff is harder to call online.

 **Makoto:** Kamoshida is well-protected. I cannot influence matters with him.

 **Makoto:** But if you’ll allow me to, I can help here.

The emails do not paint a flattering picture of Makoto’s tenure as Student Council President. People are quicker to rant than to rave, but the number of angry tirades seems high for Shujin’s population.

A weak leader who stands by to whatever Kamoshida was doing and the woman of action who swiped her sister’s phone to pursue justice when others won’t. Futaba can’t reconcile the two images.

Then again, she has plenty of proof that the same person can be wildly divergent depending on the scenario. Her own reflection glints on the screen.

 **Makoto:** Please.

Inari is alone with Madarame. For Inari to remain when everyone else has fled, the hold Madarame has must be a top tier, endgame spell.

Ito is dead. Inari could be next. Futaba would cut off her nose to spite her face ten times out of ten, but to allow a blade against another person’s throat?

Trusting Makoto is a gamble. Futaba wished she knew the odds. She can’t write a program to ensure she’s always the grand prize winner; she can’t hedge bets on both outcomes to cover herself.

What other choice does she have?

Futaba rolls up her sleeves. She sends Makoto everything - Natsuhiko’s texts, Madarame’s budgets, Ito’s medical records, her comparisons of Inari’s work with Madarame’s, the art curator’s analysis.

 **Makoto:** Give me Natsuhiko’s contact information. I will meet with him.

* * *

Futaba is a heavy sleeper, snoring through level 8 earthquakes and typhoons whipping 190 km/hr winds. Even her fierce nightmares of her uncle locking her in the bathroom or her mother taunting her over her uselessness never jolt her awake.

_BRRING…BRRING…BRRING…_

Futaba blinks, rolls over, and presses snooze.

_BRRING…BRRING…BRRING…_

Futaba groans and covers her ears. Her alarm clock with the updated Featherman logo is brand new! It couldn’t be broken already -

\- oh wait. Afraid of missing a single update due to her erratic sleeping hours, she had connected Makoto’s message notifications to twenty alarms. She had also disabled the snooze option.

Rubbing her eyes, Futaba drags herself to her phone. It’s on the thirteenth alarm.

 **Makoto:** Natsuhiko’s testimony won’t work.

This is not the kind of message worthy of interrupting her REM sleep.

Futaba slaps her cheeks to force herself awake. She should’ve rigged a bluetooth Rube Goldberg machine to dump cold water on her face.

 **Alibaba:** He’s not lying!!!

 **Makoto:** I agree.

 **Alibaba:** His story checks out with all the other students ditching Madarame. If we could corner another one, they’d back up Natsuhiko.

 **Alibaba:** Wait what?

Futaba had sent her reply before reading Makoto’s. Her answer made no sense. If Makoto didn’t think Natsuhiko was lying, why would she back out now?

A sinkhole opens in Futaba’s stomach. Makoto may have agreed to meet Natsuhiko, but she _was_ related to Sae. The prosecutor had shown complete disinterest in this case. Makoto might have decided it wasn’t flashy enough to pursue.

 **Makoto:** I believe Natsuhiko is telling the truth. However, he is under a restraining order for stalking an ex-girlfriend.  

 **Makoto:** The least competent defense attorney would rip Natsuhiko’s character to shreds, casting doubts on his testimony’s reliability.

 **Makoto:** And Madarame has the money to afford an attorney that’s more than competent.

Futaba checks Natsuhiko’s criminal record.

She flinches when his mugshot appears over red warning kanji.

 **Alibaba:** Would that affect anything? This is a different crime, so we can use him despite that. Aren’t judges supposed to be impartial?

Disgusts rolls over her in waves. She tries to fight it, because anything goes if it brings down Madarame, but she loses the battle. An image of the ex-girlfriend, cowering as she tries to move on with her life, floats in Futaba’s mind.

She deletes her message history with Natsuhiko.

 **Makoto:** Ideally, yes.

 **Makoto:** But they are human and prone to the fallacies of emotion.

Her head drops. Most of her hopes had rested on Natsuhiko’s testimony. She has her own comparisons of Inari’s and Madarame’s work but no art credentials to back it up. The receipts of Madarame siphoning Inari’s commissioned money and scholarship funds weren’t legally obtained. The courtrooms in her visual novels wouldn’t care, but Futaba suspects a real one would find that evidence inadmissible.

 **Makoto:** A direct route might be prudent at this stage. I met a journalist at the bar.

 **Alibaba:** Reliable?

The pause exponentially drops Futaba’s confidence.

 **Makoto:** She was a bit tipsy.

Futaba grimaces. Makoto had met Natsuhiko at noon.

 **Makoto:** Her name is Ichiko Ohya. She works in entertainment.

Futaba buries her head into a pillow and screams. The pillow does not completely muffle the sound.

 **Makoto:** Her articles, while flamboyant, have a degree of investigative work atypical in her industry. She’s unearthed a few celebrity scandals, and she is keen on uncovering a good story. Though her motivations are selfish, we can use her.

 **Makoto:** But since this case is personal for you, I wanted to run the possibility by you first.

Futaba takes three slow and deep breaths, imitating the yoga instructor from a recent YouTube video (she’d almost split her skull falling after attempting the Triangle pose).

 **Alibaba:** We’ll give it a shot.

 **Makoto:** A sensible decision. I will touch base with her.

The battery hits 10%, and Futaba fumbles with the charger in the dark. Yawning, she rolls onto her side but hesitates before she puts her phone down.

Natsuhiko didn’t work out, but Makoto’s trying to help regardless. That’s more than she’s seen from any adult besides Sojiro.

 **Alibaba:** You don’t have any stake in this, but you’re in it anyways.

 **Alibaba:** So thanks. It means a lot.

 **Makoto:** You are welcome, though I am doing this as much for myself as to help this Yusuke of yours.

 **Makoto:** Taking action feels good.

* * *

Futaba’s sound recording equipment is five years newer than Ohya’s. Given how fast modern technology develops, this means they are as different as an LED lightbulb and a candlestick. That her lapel mic, which Futaba uses to curse at people beating her in online play, is more advanced than the journalist’s probably says something negative about modern society, but old crones can debate that.

She ships Makoto her mic with a note that she wants it back in pristine condition.

Futaba squeezes her hands together, darkening them purple as the oxygen supply slows. Next to her sits a thermos with a two liters of calming chamomile tea. She’s had two cups so far and is halfway through a third.

Her video screen flashes from black to a dirty intersection on a cloudy day. Madarame’s shack looms a few blocks away. Having never used video chat, Futaba doesn’t have a camera, so Ohya is using her own. The resolution is grainy but serviceable.

“We on?”

“Move the camera upwards,” says Makoto in a steady voice, like infiltrating a house is something she does regularly and is no more exciting than choosing which socks to wear.

The video shakes as Ohya complies.

“Action time,” says Ohya. If Futaba could see her face, she’s sure it would have a wide, predatory grin.

A twinge of jealousy settles in Futaba. The journalist is taking all the risk yet isn’t showing any fright. Meanwhile, her own heart’s trying to break free of her rib cage.

Ohya swaggers to the shack and knocks on the door.

Inari opens it. At the sight of his drawn face with bags under his eyes, Futaba spills tea on her hand. She yelps and yanks her hands back.

 **Makoto:** Something wrong?

 **Alibaba:** Nah, don’t worry about it.

“Madarame isn’t here,” says Inari. He doesn’t seem surprised to see a maid on his doorstep. According to Madarame’s transaction history, it’s a frequent occurrence. “He will return later this evening.”

“Aww, but I came all the way over to see him,” Ohya coos. “It’s sooo far away to my apartment. Can I chill here until he gets back, pleeease?”

Futaba cringes. She’s seen terrible dramas, and Ohya’s acting easily lands in the bottom 10%. At least the journalist isn’t slurring her words. Ohya had agreed to listen to Makoto’s request only if she’d foot the bar tab.

Inari either doesn’t watch dramas or has seen so many maids faking attraction to Madarame that it no longer fazes him because he lets Ohya inside. He brings her to a ratty sofa.

“You can wait here for him. Would you like some tea?”

“Aww, such a sweet boy.” The camera lowers to Inari’s torso as Ohya sits. She swings stockinged legs onto the couch. “No thanks. I promise I’ll be good.”

Inari nods, then retreats towards a room at the end of the hallway

“Master, where are you going?”

“I have to paint,” he says, tone hollow and without any enthusiasm for a lifelong passion. It’s not even how Sojiro talks about ordering ingredients for Leblanc, a necessary chore to get to the fun part. Inari’s words are an empty sound that makes Futaba want to bash Madarame’s head in with her keyboard.

As soon as the door clicks, Ohya jumps onto her feet and lands soundlessly. “Boy looks miserable.”

“If Alibaba is correct, he has reason to be.”

“I _am_ correct.”

“I did not mean to imply-”

“Now now children, let’s not fight amongst ourselves.” Ohya’s progress through the house is swift. She opens and closes doors before Futaba can get a good look at the rooms. At her speed, she should be making noise, but Futaba’s fancy microphone doesn’t pick anything up. “We’re all pitching for the same team.”

“Madrame hasn’t moved from Ginza,” says Futaba. “You can slow down.”

“You learn to smell secrets early on in my career. I won’t pass any by, promise.”

The fourth door is locked. Ohya takes out a set of lock picks. Best part about poofy maid skirts are the deep pockets.

“You promised to give those back,” says Makoto. “And to not use these skills outside this mission.”

“Course I won’t, sweetie.”

Makoto’s sigh echoes in her mic. “Don’t tell anyone where you learned it.”

The doorknob turns. Ohya slips inside.

The room has dozens of cloth-covered canvases, and Futaba understands what Ohya meant earlier. This room screams _secret_.

Ohya removes the cloth from one of the canvases.

Futaba gasps. She juts her face centimeters from the screen.

Even in the 360p resolution, the canvas underneath is very clearly the _Sayuri._

“That’s in Ueno,” she says. Futaba folds her hands together and rests her head on top of them. The exhibit isn’t over. The _Sayuri_ should be there, being gawked at by art admirers.

“I covered it on opening day,” says Ohya, sounding equally puzzled. “Saw it front and center.”

She removes another cloth.

 _Sayuri_ again.

The third and fourth are also the _Sayuri._

Makoto whistles. Futaba grins.

Ohya unmasks each canvas, revealing them all to be _Sayuri._ A bright light fills the screen, and the shutter of a camera goes off.

“That one’s different,” says Ohya. She points to a canvas at the front of the room. This _Sayuri_ is cradling something in her arms, but the resolution is too poor for Futaba to make it out.

“It’s a scam,” says Makoto with an edge of smugness. “This should be enough for a warrant.”

Futaba collapses. If she could reach through her screen, she’d grab Makoto and kiss her.

Ohya digs around canvases stacked on the shelves. These are works in progress, half-finished pieces on the path to become more _Sayuri_ ’s. Ohya puts her camera to work, capturing the scene at every angle.

_Yes, yes, we’ve fucking got you now Madarame._

A light changes course on her other screen. Futaba clambers back up. “Madarame’s moving towards you!”

The video jolts. Ohya throws the cloths back over the canvases, moving faster than before.

“Half an hour subway ride form Ginza to Shibuya,” says Makoto. “Twenty minutes if he’s using a taxi. Get out of there.”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice.”

Hurling a cloth over the last canvas, Ohya rushes out of the room.

“Lock it!” says Makoto.

Ohya scrambles back and turns the lock. The door shuts with a bang. Futaba crosses her fingers for Inari’s obliviousness to hold.

The journalist rushes to Inari’s room, not bothering to hide her footsteps. She opens the door without waiting for permission.

Inside, Inari sits with shoulders hunched. His canvas is blank.

He looks up at Ohya’s entrance. “I’m sorry, is there-”

“Tell Madarame I’m soooo sorry,” says Ohya. She’s difficult to hear over the heavy breathing. “My…son had an asthma attack. Gotta help him with his inhaler. I’m such a bad girl. Tell Madarame I’ll make it up to him extra special next time.”

She doesn’t wait for a response. Ohya ducks out of the back door, and the video goes black.

* * *

“In a move that’s shaken the art world, Tokyo police arrested 67 year old Ichiryusai Madarame yesterday at 20:08. Madarame, one of Japan’s most famous artists and a cultural icon in the 21st century, stands accused of forgery, theft, fraud, and child neglect.”

Sojiro sits on the couch and leans forward at an angle that’ll cause him to complain about back pains in the morning. He was reading a book, a space opera starring a mathematician possessed by an undead tactician (Futaba’s recommendation), but he’s closed it for this news segment.

Futaba is on the floor, clutching her knees to her chest and swaying side to side. She has to remind herself to breath; she keeps accidentally holding her breath, making her lightheaded.  

“We paid 1200 yen to see his work,” says Sojiro. “We should get a refund.”

“Tipped off by the journalist Ichiko Ohya, police found dozens of forgeries of Madarame’s most famous work, the _Sayuri._ Under questioning, Madarame has admitted he stole the painting from the novice artist Kitagawa Ayumi after her death. He then altered and forged it to sell to art collectors on the black market.”

Two _Sayuri’s_ appear. One is the famous painting plastered on advertisement boards for Madarame’s exhibit. The other, which Futaba was previously unable to make out but is now quite clear on the 4K resolution TV screen, is holding a bundled infant.

The camera fades to Inari, slinking past reporters clamoring for his attention.

“Her son, Kitagawa Yusuke of Kosei High School, was taken in by Madarame at three years of age. After Kitagawa demonstrated a talent for art, Madarame coerced Kitagawa to paint for him by threatening to leave him on the streets if he did not comply.”

The screen shows two dozen paintings, all done in Inari’s style. In the bottom left corner are the four paintings Futaba found at the Ueno exhibit.

“Madarame stole Kitagawa’s paintings and claimed them as his own work. Bank statements have also revealed that Madarame took money from the Kosei scholarship fund and from Kitagawa’s personal assets made from selling his own art.”

“Had no idea he was going through that.” Sojiro’s sigh has the weight of the world. Futaba knows he’s regretting not having sent Inari home with Tupperware containers full of curry. “Poor kid.”

“Kitagawa was not Madarame’s only victim. So far, thirteen former students have come forward to testify against him. The police suspect more will appear after news of Madarame’s arrest spreads.”

A homeless man, covered in dirt and wrapped in a ratty blanket, shakes a fist at the camera.

“Madarame ruined my life,” he growls. “Pretended my paintings were his own. Said it was payment for the food and shelter. When I finally got fed up and left, he dragged my name through the mud in the art world. No one would buy my paintings after that.”

The reporter, a pretty woman with shoulder-length black hair, reappears.

“More from Officer Sanada and Detective Shirogane after the break.”

The segment cuts to a telephone service commercial.

Futaba unfurls her legs and sprawls on the floor. Lately, her muscles had been so tight she’d been afraid reaching for a shelf would tear a ligament. Now, they’re as mushy as the spaghetti she once left in the pot overnight.

Sojiro hands her a tissue box. Futaba grabs one and wipes her eyes. It’s soaked through almost immediately.

“Just happy,” she says to Sojiro’s questioning look. She blows her nose. “Promise. Fucker finally got what was coming to him.”

Sojiro doesn’t berate her for swearing. He pulls her towards him, and Futaba sinks into his chest.

Weeks of waiting - of re-reading Ohya’s article so many times the exact words appeared in her dreams, of hacking the police department’s computer systems so she could stay up to date on the investigation’s progress, of biting half her nails off because everything was going so damn slow - have finally paid off.

_We won._

* * *

**Alibaba** : ☆*･゜ﾟ･*\\(^O^)/*･゜ﾟ･*☆

 **Makoto:** Finally. The wait was more nerve-wracking than for the high school entrance exams.

 **Alibaba:** At least we knew all about the developments as soon as they happened.

 **Makoto:** That did do wonders for soothing the mind.

 **Makoto:** Though I reiterate my disapproval about your means.

 **Alibaba:** Noted. ;)

 **Alibaba:** How’s your sister reacting to your newfound investigative stardom?

 **Makoto** : She is disappointed for missing out on this case. It got assigned to Prosecutor Edgeworth.

 **Makoto:** I hope the next time she receives a plea for help, she will hear them out instead of pushing them aside.

Futaba wasn’t going to bet on it, but she holds her snark in. This is a happy occasion. She doesn’t want to ruin the mood.

 **Makoto:** Why didn’t you want Ohya to credit you?

Ohya’s article had thanked Makoto for the tip to Madarame’s crimes. She had offered to give Futaba a contributor line, but Futaba had refused.

 **Alibaba:** Don’t need it. All I wanted was that jackass to be in jail.

 **Makoto:** I admire your selflessness.

 **Alibaba:** Hardly. Madarame hurt someone I cared about. I wanted to hurt him back.

 **Makoto:** More than enough justification.

 **Makoto:** Oh, here is the tracking information for your microphones:  <link> It should arrive in five to seven days.

 **Makoto:** Though since you also live in Tokyo, it would have been faster to meet in person.

 **Futaba:** Privacy yo.

 **Makoto:** You are an enigma, but a well-intentioned one.

 **Makoto:** If you come across any more injustices ignored by the adults, send them my way.

It’s too much. Futaba tries to think of a reply, what to say to show her appreciation. Something witty and clever, something worthy of the pseudonym she hides behind. She searches and searches, but the words leap out of her head and miss the keyboard. She’s tired and due for 72 hours of uninterrupted sleep to make up for her recent insomnia (a problem she’d never had before and disliked immensely).

She settles.

 **Alibaba:** Thank you.

* * *

Inari’s notification sound pings. Futaba jerks, the movement flinging her mouse at the wall. It hits a frame that knocks its battery cover off.

She picks it up. With her shaking hands, it takes three tries to snap the cover back into place.

The notification alert blinks at her. Futaba puts her mouse cursor on it.

Press it. Procrastinating wouldn’t do anything, except make her fixate on the message’s potential contents at every waking moment. It would numb her mind, slow her reflexes, make her miss when shooting humans possessed by mutant fungi.

Futaba goes to the kitchen and brews a cup of peppermint tea. She swirls in a spoonful of honey and takes deep, full breaths.

Returning to her desk, she blows on her tea. She waits for the steam to disperse and considers remaking the cup. Sojiro would be devastated to learn she used a microwave to brew it.

_Stop it, Futaba. Procrastinate on cracking that patch update instead._

Futaba takes one last, long breath. She covers her left eye with a hand, ready to block her entire vision if needed, and opens Inari’s message.

 **Inari:** I am sorry.

 **Inari:** I presume you’ve seen the news, but if you haven’t, you were correct in regards to Madarame’s crimes. I apologize for denying it.

Futaba drops her hand and gulps in air. Her mouth is dry, so she wets her tongue with the tea.

It’s still hot. Dammit.

She fans her mouth with both hands. Once her tongue stops tingling, she returns to her keyboard.

 **Alibaba:** Why did you?

 **Inari:** I do not know.

His response is quick, like he’s been staring at his screen waiting for a reply.

Futaba dismisses the possibility. It’s something she would do, but she doubts Inari, or anyone else, is as desperate for human contact as she can be.

 **Inari:** Same reason I stayed, I suppose. He was always saying how much of a burden I was. I felt I owed him for taking me in at all.

Her grandmother, telling her grandfather they were too old to take care of a brat. A cousin, yelling at home services it wasn’t his problem Wakaba got herself killed. Her uncle…

 **Alibaba:** I can get that.

 **Inari:** I do apologize for my actions. You were trying to help, and I should not have pushed you away.

Yeah you shouldn’t have!

Futaba frowns and deletes the words. It’s how she felt, how the worst in her still feels, but it seems callous.

Sojiro stuck with her in those first months, though she had closed herself off and he had no obligation to help her. If the time came to pass on a good deed then what was the point of clinging on to bitterness?

And it feels…nice, helping another person escape a horrific situation.

 **Alibaba:** Hey man, it’s cool. Draw more fan art and we’re even.

 **Inari** : Done deal.

Inari sends her a doodle of Johanna. He’s never uploaded anything vehicle-related before but, unfairly, the doodle is better than anything Futaba could conjure.

 **Inari:** Did you have anything to do with the investigation?

Futaba spits out a mouthful of tea.

He couldn’t know. He didn’t.

 **Alibaba:** Nah, I look like a detective? Why would you ask lol?

 **Inari:** The timing seemed to coincide.

 **Inari:** Will you ever tell me who you are?

 **Alibaba:** You’ve already tried this route. You need to pick new dialogue options if you want different results.

The last thing she’d tell Inari is her identity. Alibaba is cool and composed - everything Futaba wants to be, everything she is not. He’d be disappointed to discover she was an anxiety-ridden dropout. She wouldn’t let him find out, ever.

 **Alibaba:** Why do you wanna know?

 **Inari:** You know who I am. It would grant parity of knowledge.

 **Alibaba:** I’m an eighty year old pervert.

 **Inari:** I would have received a genitalia-laden picture by now.

 **Alibaba:** <img_^_~>

 **Inari:** I…fear the consequences if I download that on Kosei’s WiFi.

* * *

Futaba needs to delete the tracking app. It’s served its purpose. If necessary, she could write another tracking program in the time it takes to water the houseplants. There is no reason to keep it around.

She pulls up the app with the full intention of getting rid of it.

The coordinates flash. 

Inari is not at Kosei, or a museum, or wandering lost in a dairy farm near Hokkaido. He is at Leblanc.

Futaba doesn’t delete her program. She grabs her sneakers (the boots she favors require ten minutes of fiddling with the buckles) and rushes out.

* * *

Futaba expects a domestic scene similar to Inari’s last visit, with the teen enjoying a steaming cup of coffee and Sojiro stopping over the bar counter (she told him she’s not working on her posture until he fixes his own. No improvement has proceeded on either front).

She tilts her head at the frosted glass of Leblanc’s door. The figures inside are blurry but distinct enough to show Sojiro and Inari on their feet, gesticulating at each other.

The boom of raised voices is audible. Futaba puts an ear to the door, but she can’t make out the words through the vibrations of the glass.

She removes her head and places a hand on the door. When was the last time Sojiro had an argument? In front of her, with her uncle. Never with customers no matter how little they tipped or how deserved of a kick up their backside. Inari is strange but not rude and nowhere near enough of a money-grubbing asshole to raise Sojiro’s hackles.

They seemed to get along well last time. Futaba wants them to get along. She pushes the door open and enters.

The shouts die as the chiming bells announce her presence. Sojiro, with a hand clutched to a red and purple face, looks like he recently wrestled a pig inside from an upcoming storm only to find two more have escaped. Inari's pleasant expression could be framed in a hospital wing to calm nervous patients.

Inari heads straight to her.

Futaba’s fight or flight response fails. Her brain chooses instead to freeze, only retaining enough nerve control to keep her upright with none leftover to spur her legs into action.

He doesn’t know who she is, no way he’s good enough with technology to decode her IP address and multi-layered pseudonyms, did Makoto figure it out and tell him -

“I will gift it to your daughter then, since you will not accept it,” says Inari, shoving a smooth object into her hands. He nods at her, then waves his arms in a dramatic flourish at Sojiro. “May I have some coffee now? I would like to try the Hawaiian Kona blend. Shujin Academy has a field trip to Hawaii soon, but my school is going to Los Angeles.”

Futaba looks down. Her breath catches.

The _Sayuri_ gleams.

“Futaba, give that back.” Sojiro pulls at his hair. Futaba’s mind is reeling, and she misses the chance to point out that his upcoming baldness doesn’t need the help. “Yusuke, you are not leaving that here.”

“This is my inheritance. The police said I am allowed to do whatever I wish with it. I wish to gift it, in exchange for your kindness in providing me dinner previously.”

“Boy, that was a 2000 yen meal. This is a _priceless_ artifact.”

“Then it should cover the cost of my patronage today too. May I have a bowl of curry as well?”

“This belongs in a museum, not a street side cafe!”

“This painting, the true _Sayuri,_ has languished in Madarame’s basement for over a decade. I wish for others to see to see it, to be inspired by its beauty like I once was as a child.”

Inari’s calm replies never falter, but Sojiro’s voice gets louder and louder. Both fade as Futaba studies the painting.

This is a mother who loves her child.

Next to this, the false _Sayuri_ is a pale imitation. How was it considered a masterpiece when it was missing the small infant, the object of the _Sayuri_ ’s adoration?

Futaba goes to the attic and rummages through the boxes. She finds adhesive frame strips and attaches them onto the back of the frame.

Sojiro and Inari are still at it when she returns. She slips around them. They’ve taken up the same positions she found them in earlier, Yusuke standing tall with arms folded and Sojiro’s hands twitching as if he’d like to throttle the artist.

“The lighting here is dim, so the colors shouldn’t fade. Do not forget to maintain the temperature at 20° Celsius.”

“That is not issue here. Are you being purposely obtuse!?”

Futaba presses the frame onto the wall near the door. Sojiro and Inari turn towards the sound of the heavy frame hitting the wooden panels. Inari’s face brightens by the same magnitude that Sojiro’s darkens.

“ _Futaba_ ,” say Sojiro, the single word conveying the disapproval of a bird-of-paradise unimpressed with a mating dance.

Inari moves to view the _Sayuri_ head on. He doesn’t alter his course to account for Futaba standing in his path, but she manages to swivel out of his way before he crashes into her. The breeze from him rushing past raises goosebumps on her arms.

“Excellent location. Guests will see it upon entering, and the patrons can admire it while enjoying their meal.” Inari makes a rectangular shape with his hands and peers at the _Sayuri_ through the opening. He bends his knees. “I suggest raising it for optimal viewing for the average height of a Japanese adult.”

“Think of the children. What if the next Van Gogh becomes a cupcake baker instead, all because they were too short to be inspired by the _Sayuri_?”

Sojiro, who is making his way towards them, stops with his mouth agape. Flushing, Futaba angles herself so that her back is to him.

Which puts her face to face with Inari.

“I suppose that is a fair point, if the population ratio of this establishment skews towards that age range.” He rubs his chin, then holds a hand to her. “I do not believe we’ve been formally introduced. My name is Kitagawa Yusuke.”

‘I know’ almost leaves her lips. She bites her tongue in the nick of time.

The seconds tick.

His hand is open, inviting, terrifying.

A name is a bond. It’s the conversion of a random NPC to an important party member. It’s a beginning. A quest to save the world begins with a mission to fetch water.

It’s also an avenue to terror. People hurt you.

She swallows her saliva, pretending it’s the remnants of a guts-boosting potion, and clasps his hand. It’s large and smooth and warm. His long painter’s fingers wrap around hers.

“Sakura Futaba.” Her voice, decibels away from a whisper, wavers. It cracks on her first name, but she gets the words out.

As soon as he releases her hand, Futaba leaps over the counter to the barista’s side, knocking aside a stool.

“Pleased to meet you,” Inari calls out to her retreating back.

She sits on the floor, holding her knees while dwarves pound an anvil in her chest.

Sojiro comes over. He looks down at her, opens his mouth, turns to the _Sayuri_ (‘to the boy standing next to it,’ supplies a traitorous voice. Futaba tells it to shut up) and then back at her.

“You just…” Sojiro doesn’t seem to realize he’s spoken out loud. “When he…then you…”

“The _Sayuri_ looks good there,” says Futaba, wishing she’d thrown a flour smoke bomb to blind Sojiro before she’d taken Inari’s hand. “Matches the décor. The potted plant next to it, the branch in the painting. It’s a theme. A-anyways, think of the profit margins. You could sell tickets to see it.”

Sojiro is usually an open book to her, but his stare is unreadable. Futaba matches it for five seconds before averting her gaze.

He pats her on the head before addressing Inari. “I will keep the _Sayuri_ safe until you want it back. But if art thieves ransack this place to steal it, I’m sending you the bill.”

Sojiro brews a cup of coffee. Inari raves about the bold floral flavors and calls it the best cup he’s ever had. Futaba cannot distinguish a bean grown in Ethiopia from one grown in the Jamaican Blue Mountain, but she notices Sojiro taking the beans from his smallest glass jar, the one filled with half a kilo of coffee beans costing 40K yen.

After Inari leaves, Futaba asks, “Have you talked about me to In - Yusuke?” She knows the answer, since Inari knew Sojiro had a daughter. The insecure part of her believes they were gossiping about her, trading barbs. She knows Sojiro wouldn’t, and she doubts Inari would, but voices in her head are diffiult to quiet.

“He asked if I had family before he tried to foist that on me today.” Sojiro puts a hand on the _Sayuri._ Paranoid that the adhesive strips wouldn’t hold the painting up, he had taken it down while grilling Inari about proper frame-hanging techniques. Inari had launched into an enthusiastic twenty minute mini-lecture that Futaba had been tempted to record and submit to Ted Talk. “Mentioned I had a daughter. Didn’t say anything further, but I guess he put two and two together.”

Sojiro turns to her, his gaze thoughtful. “The kid seems alright. Odd and single-minded, but polite.” His tone is casual, like he’s telling her what color towel he’s going to buy.

Futaba reads the question in it. She knows what Sojiro wants to ask.

‘ _You haven’t spoken to anyone in over a year - why him?’_

But since he isn’t saying it aloud, Futaba ignores the subtext. She grabs a moist towel and wipes down the tables.

* * *

 **Inari** : <img_Dinner>

 **Alibaba** : Eww gross lol, coffee and curry is weird.

 **Inari** : It’s a strange combination, but I find it quite delightful.

 **Inari** : I even tasted some of the coffee in the curry. It added a slight bitterness that enriched the flavor.

 **Alibaba** : How are your tastebuds so sensitive when everything you eat is an hour away from the compost bin?

 **Alibaba** : At least with your new windfall, you can treat yourself to a Michelin-starred restaurant.

 **Inari** : I bought two lobsters with the first payout of Madarame’s assets. The price was very fair.

 **Inari** : Unfortunately, I underestimated the add-on costs.

 **Inari** : After the tank, protein skimmer, water heater, decorative elements, salt, and feed, I have a thousand yen for this week’s groceries.

 **Alibaba** : (;☉_☉)

 **Alibaba** : Here are some five-star budgeting apps: <link>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate it, and Happy Thursday tomorrow to those who don’t! :)


	9. Recoveries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. I’ve been flying through episodes of The Wire, and it’s difficult to write when you’re a blubbering mess bemoaning the ills of society.

**Inari** : You are well-versed with technological matters?

**Alibaba** : Definitely. Whazzup?

**Inari** : I listen to classical music while painting for the concentration boost.

**Inari** : Yesterday, I attempted to select Chopin’s Mazurka in A minor, but the music re-routed to a financial podcast.

**Inari** : I cannot change it. Even my ringtone plays the podcast instead of Eine kleine Nachtmusik.

**Alibaba** : Weird. Sounds like a broke ghost is haunting you.

**Alibaba** : Etch holy symbols onto your bedposts and cast Megido.

* * *

“Does Yusuke draw anything besides that abstract swirly stuff?”

That’s the eleventh time in three days Sojiro has brought up Yusuke. Sojiro must really like him.

“How would I know? You’ve been there every time I’ve talked to him.” She stuffs her mouth with curry loaded with fish. Sojiro insists on having it a minimum three times a week, for the omega 3 acids.

“He called to reserve a table at Leblanc tomorrow.”

Futaba chokes and spits out a half-chewed mass. Sojiro takes an appropriately-sized bite of his curry.

Her mind whirs. Offering to clean the attic would alert Sojiro, but she could say she’s looking for her old NES cartridges. Or that she can’t find her alchemist action figure and it must be up there. With her tracking app, she’d know exactly when to sneak back down…

“You want to help out?” he asks. “Leblanc’s overflowed with patrons ever since word got out about Sayuri.”

Perfect. She can save her excuse for another day.

“Sure.”

* * *

Thirty minutes before Leblanc opens, a small crowd waits outside. Futaba tries not to look at the shadowed mass, but it draws her eye like a neon orange map marker.

She hadn’t thought this through. Helping meant being here for the entire day and not only when Inari stopped by. Sojiro would let her back out, but she’d rummaged for excuses that wouldn’t make her feel like a dick and had come up short. At least Sojiro would take care of the patrons, allowing her to bunker in the kitchen.

“The ruckus should die down soon,” says Sojiro, “after everyone who’s interested in the _Sayuri_ has seen it.”

Futaba puts the Reserved plaque at the corner table closest to Leblanc’s security cameras. “It’s good for business.”

Sojiro purses his lips. He complains about slow days, but he isn’t a fan of these hectic ones either. Futaba suspects he likes moaning about work.

He takes the last stool off the bar counter and sets it in place, then counts the money in the cash register. Futaba returns to the kitchen and stirs the boiling curry. The liquid swirls and the bubbles pop. It’s a remarkable imitation of her stomach acid.

Futaba turns the heat down and covers the pot. She swivels towards the computer rig set up by the fridge.

“ _Why’re we moving this into the kitchen?” asks Sojiro, puzzled._

_“Security! Who’s going to make sure no one swipes our toilet paper?”_

_“Not you. The bathroom doesn’t have cameras.”_

_“I’ll protect the napkin holders.”_

Sojiro typically uses his security cameras after locking up at night, but she persuaded him to keep them on during hours. For Sayuri’s sake.

The monitor has five different angles of Leblanc’s interior. Futaba turns up the volume, and change clinks as Sojiro drops coins into the till. The first screen, which she enlarges, shows the reserved table front and center.

Humming, she grabs some garlic and minces them into uneven pieces (garlic is one of the ingredients Sojiro doesn’t mind her cutting, since irregular garlic pieces won’t affect a curry’s textures. Onions are off-limits). The pot of simmering curry is large, but this is the first weekend since Inari handed them the _Sayuri_. Given the size of the waiting entrants, Sojiro underestimated how much food to prepare. Best to get a head start on the next batch.

Sojiro enter. “Ready?”

She gives him a thumbs up.

* * *

An hour later, a sweating Futaba flicks off the door leading to Leblanc’s crowded seating area.

The first batch had gone in fifteen minutes. Four pots now simmer beside her, courtesy of Sojiro temporarily lifting her food preparation ban and her frantic chopping. She coughs. The steam is moments away from inducing an asthma attack and her dumb inhaler is in her room (and likely expired. Futaba never does enough physical activity to become short of breath enough to need it).

Panting, Futaba stares at the flames. These customers, too lazy to make their own food and rude for lining up before the darn place even opened, would deserve the blisters and charred skin if she burned Leblanc down…

No, she shouldn’t. A jury wouldn’t believe she was only trying to close the cafe, not commit insurance fraud. Besides, the kitchen wouldn’t burn easily. All the wood furniture was outside.

She scowls and shoots both middle fingers up to her security screens, to the couple sharing a bar stool (gross) and to the art students gathered around the  _Sayuri_ with their sketch pads (they better have ordered something, or she’ll see if her video game skills in knife throwing translates to real life) and to Ohya sitting across from Makoto and Inari.

Wait. When had they gotten here?

She jams the sound up and glances at her phone. Sure enough, Inari’s GPS signal is smack dab in the middle of Leblanc and she’d missed it because she’d been peeling potatoes.

“Did you let the whole city know the _Sayuri’s_ here?” asks Ohya. She lounges on the bench as if at home.

“I only told my classmates who wanted to see it,” protests Inari. He furrows his brow in something approaching deep thought (the look does not suit him), and a sheepish expression inches its way over his face. “At first. But it was tiring answering my door so often, so I sent an email to the class listserv to expedite the news.”

“A butterfly flaps its wings,” says Makoto. Whereas Inari and Ohya slump, Makoto’s back is so straight a mathematician could calibrate a right angle to it.

“At least we’re getting our meals for free,” says Ohya. “However long it takes. The poor thing looks haggard.”

Inari frowns. “He should’ve let me pay for you two.”

“I’d say he’s making up the loss with all these people your Sayuri brought in.”

“But this was to be my thanks for your work in apprehending Madarame.” Inari’s breath catches on his former mentor’s name. Ohya’s checking her phone and Makoto’s sipping her coffee, so neither notice. Futaba, bending towards the screen (potatoes forgotten), does.

He lets out a small breath and composes himself. “This cannot qualify as proper thanks if someone else shoulders the financial burden.”

Makoto shakes her head. “We appreciate your gratitude, but it’s unnecessary. We only followed the information given to us by someone else.”

“An anonymous tip?” Inari leans to Makoto, worsening his posture even further. “Any ideas on who?”

“The return address for her microphones was around here,” says Makoto. She swivels her head towards the door, as if she can see through the waiting lines to Sojiro’s house a block away.

Futaba freezes.

Shit.

She hadn’t bothered making Sojiro pick up the package at the post office, cause why the hell would Makoto bother looking into some random Internet stranger?

Distraction. She needs a rock to throw, a firecracker to set off. Shrouding Leblanc in darkness would be perfect, if Sojiro hadn’t cut off the resources to build that skill tree. They needed to have another conversation about smart bulbs.

Futaba clambers to the kitchen counter and grabs a water pitcher as Ohya speaks. “She didn’t want us to know who she was.”  
  
She barges through the door. Sojiro, scrambling over a counter packed with enough coffee drip makers to make Amazon jealous, jerks his kettle.

A muffled curse rings out behind her. Futaba doesn’t look back. With a dexterity pushing the limits of her physical ability, she ducks around the couple making out on the stool and skids to a halt in front of Inari’s table.

“I’m just saying that it was good information,” says Makoto. “And if she has other -”

“W-water?” interrupts Futaba.

Makoto’s head snaps up towards her. Inari nods.

Ohya ignores Futaba’s attempt at misdirection. “We gotta respect our source’s wishes. If they want to be anonymous, they stay anonymous.”

“Madarame is not the only injustice in Tokyo in which people in power choose to stand idly by,” says Makoto. “If she is willing to aid in the pursuit of other criminals, we could hold them accountable for her actions.”

Makoto’s eyes flicker to Futaba, who licks her dry lips and tilts the pitcher towards Inari’s cup.

“You get scoops on the assumption you will protect the source,” says Ohya, voice sharp enough to attach to a rifle and stab through chain link armor. Nothing about Ohya - her casual jeans and T-shirt or the whiff of sake around her - indicates anything but indolence, but she glowers now with an intensity that could make tight-lipped yakuza lieutenants spill their secrets.

As Futaba pours the water, she wonders why a woman like this is on the entertainment beat.

“But -”

“If you promise confidentiality and then burn your source, you can’t be trusted. You’re ethically rotten. But if you don’t care about that, it’s illegal too. Breach of contract. That has nasty consequences.”

Ohya and Makoto glare at each other. Futaba’s hand shakes, but she manages to not spill water over the rim. Good thing too, because Inari has his sketchbook out.

“Thank you,” he says.

“N-no problem,” says Futaba. She bites her lip. The stony silence makes the air downright oppressive. The tension seems to slide off Inari, whose concentration is on his sketch. “Um, what’re you drawing?”

Inari turns the sketchbook over to the table. It’s two Ohya's: one with an easy, languid manner and the other with her arms folded and a scowl on her face.

“I’m flattered,” says the subject. “Do I get royalties if this wins an art contest?”

“I would only consider submitting if I can properly convey the disparity between the two personas. When we first met free of disguises, my impression of you was akin to meeting a sloth.” Ohya raises an eyebrow. Inari, sweeping his hands upward, ignores her. “I wondered how a person so lackadaisical and slovenly could spur the police into pursuing a hidden criminal. However, when you defended journalistic integrity just now, I had a glimpse of something else, something greater. A masked barracuda hidden in plain sight amongst its prey.”

Futaba bites down a giggle in the awkward pause. Inari needs a real life ctrl+z more than she does.

“You graduate in two years,” says Makoto, sounding halfway between amused and exasperated. “Use the time to study speeches, and how to choose the correct words for a situation.”

Ohya snorts. “It’d be better if he didn’t. That pretty face would be dangerous if his mouth didn’t run like a de-feathered ostritch being whipped by the yakuza.”

Makoto laughs. Inari stares blankly at the two of them. Futaba doesn’t get it either. She studies his face.

It’s alright. Too pale but smooth and free of acne. He probably spends as much on skincare products as on lobsters. Does he wear makeup? She can’t tell, but surely those long lashes aren’t natural.

…okay, his face is pretty. It’d fit in an otome game. Futaba clutches the pitcher closer and reddens, though she doesn’t know why. Inari’s face would be a mid-tier option at _best_.

“I’d like some water over here too,” shouts a customer from the table over.

Futaba gulps and glances towards Sojiro, but he’s juggling a line for coffee. Today must be the first day in Leblanc’s history that all the siphon coffee makers are loaded. She stumbles to the other table and fills their cups. She’ll get zero tips for customer service, but her aim is accurate. That’s enough of a success for Futaba to award herself bonus EXP.

She looks back to Inari’s table and finds Makoto staring right at her. Their eyes meet, and the honors student immediately turns away.

Futaba bolts to the kitchen, spilling water. She leaves the slipping hazard untouched; with the extended waiting times for the food, the puddle should evaporate before anyone can trip and sue.

She slams the door behind her, sets the pitcher on the counter, and falls onto her stool.

Sojiro pops his head into the kitchen, eyes filled with concern. Futaba grabs the rice bag and shovels scoops into the rice cooker.

“They needed water!” Her voice is squeaky. “You should be keeping an eye on them.”

“I didn’t expect it to be like this,” says Sojiro, sounding like he’s trapped on the bottom floor of a dungeon with 20% health, his party members dead, and no more potions. “You’re free to return home or go sit with Inari and his friends.”

“I’m not abandoning the quest halfway. Bring it, I’m leveling up today.”

* * *

“I need to hire help,” says Sojiro. He wipes the sweat off his glistening forehead with a hand.

Futaba passes him a towel. “You could always raise your prices to thin the crowd.”

Sojiro grunts, which means no. Futaba busies herself with sorting cutlery to hide her smirk. He’ll whine all day about working for pennies, but he’ll refuse to cheat his customers.

“Too bad we didn’t get more time to talk with Yusuke,” says Sojiro.

Futaba spills a fork into the spoon pile. Has Sojiro ever fixated on a topic this much? There was his brief stint with that medieval TV show, but otherwise he was never this obsessive about anything unrelated to coffee or curry.

She puts the fork into its proper stack. “Um, yeah, I guess.”

“Fun seeing him again though.”

“He’s kinda weird.”

“The kid told me his lobsters aren’t getting along. He thinks their living quarters are too small. He asked me if he should get another fifty gallon tank and separate them or invest in a hundred gallon tank so they can live together.”

Futaba rolls her eyes and makes a mental note to adjust the money podcasts to 1.5x speed so he can listen to more lessons. “Sounds like him. He could hire a team of professionals to manage his money and it’d be way cheaper than him spending all willy nilly.”

“I worry about him,” he says with a sigh.

He slides a piece of paper to her. Scribbled on it is a telephone number in an unfamiliar, neat handwriting. Nothing’s on the back.

Futaba raises an eyebrow. “This is…?”

“Yusuke’s number.”

Futaba snakes her hands away from the crumpled sheet. She meets Sojiro’s eyes. His face is so nondescript it could be an NPC in an 8 bit game.

“What…do you want me to do with this?” she asks. The paper looms like a corpse possessed by a vengeful tree spirit.

Sojiro shrugs. “Keep it handy, in case he’s supposed to swing by and is late. Between the two of us, we should be able to stop him from wandering to Inaba because a common fruit fly distracted him.”

She narrows her eyes. Sojiro loads the dishwasher, and he doesn’t falter or glance her way. Nothing to indicate anything out of the ordinary.

Times like these, she remembers he used to work for the government, guarding secret research from nosy reporters. She’d always thought he was easy to read, but maybe Sojiro had never tried to be secretive around her.

Futaba pokes at the paper. It doesn’t burst into a hoard of angry vines thirsty for revenge against the humans that murdered it. She picks it up.

From her dramas and slice of life animes, there’s only one reason to give someone another person’s number - but that’s ridiculous. Sojiro’s her dad. They’re overprotective of that sort of thing.

She should take Sojiro’s word at face value. He wouldn’t lie to her.

Her personal tutorial fairy screeches _all is not as it seems!_

But what excuse did she have to reject Inari’s number? I already have a means of contacting him, thanks. I’ve placed a tracking app on his phone already and I can write texts directly on his phone if I wanted to, so no need for this.

Futaba slips the paper into her pocket.

* * *

**Inari** : The podcasts play as soon as I step inside my dorm now.

**Alibaba** : Maybe it’ll stop once you get through ‘em all.

**Inari** : How does the app know I’ve returned?

**Inari** : I’ve tested it. No matter if I come back to my dorm at 17:00 or 02:00, it’ll start playing right away.

**Alibaba** : Technology can equip multiple EXP shares, so it evolves fast.

**Inari** : Should I submit my phone to the NPA Security Bureau?

**Alibaba** : Won’t help, trust me.

**Inari** : I suppose I will continue putting my phone in the fridge to muffle the sounds when I sleep.

**Inari** : Do you think <link> or <link> would be the more effective noise-cancelling headphones?

**Alibaba** : Inari, these are both over 30K yen.

**Inari** : But the minimalistic designs are sleek to the eye. The lower priced ones are clunky and would overwhelm the head’s silhouette.

**Inari** : I also worry that the paint would peel off more easily on the cheaper ones. I do not want to waste my paints for repairs.

**Alibaba** : Have you bought food for this week yet???

**Inari** : Do not worry. I am set for the next month.

**Inari** : My local grocery store was about to throw away three boxes of expired ramen, but they were willing to let me have them instead.

**Alibaba** : (＠￣Д￣＠；)

* * *

Sojiro has never employed anyone but himself. After two hours of reading resumes, he was currently at the medicine cabinet looking for Advil.

Futaba pilfers through the stack of applications he left behind.

Tokura Noriyo, five-year employee at Big Bang Burger.

Okumura Haru, student. Familiar with business expenses.

Hisa Rui, bartender. Has to be back at the bar by 22:00.

Futaba raises her arm to cover her mouth and stifles a yawn. Her excel spreadsheet, with columns of Skills and Work Experience, is threadbare. She’s organizing resumes to help Sojiro rank the applicants, but is being the former captain of a soccer team better than having a green thumb? As far as she can tell, the only real difference between them is the weight of the paper. Okumura’s is the heaviest. Futaba notes it in the Other Info column.

She massages her temples. She could have been watching that new video essay on the Victorian action RPG. Or researching lobster recipes that would fit Leblanc’s theme.

Futaba pushes the resumes aside. The hours wasted running through her mind, she shoves with unnecessary force. The resumes hit another stack of paper, and they all fall off the table. The sheets flutter in the air, cresting onto the floor as horror slams into Futaba.

A long, loud groan escapes her. Sojiro should have listened to her pitch for an online ad and application process. Not worth the trouble, he had said. They’d only get a few applications, he had said.

Darn _Sayuri_. With these unexpected profits, Sojiro better be buying her a computer that could challenge the Summit for supercomputer chiefdom. He’d resisted raising prices so far, but maybe he wouldn’t notice if she went ahead replaced his menus at midnight.

She picks up the mess of papers. The electricity bill, spam, a targeted credit card offer, an already open letter from Sakura Shigeko.

Futaba cocks her head. Sojiro hadn't mentioned he’d heard from his sister.

She shakes the envelope. Out falls a handwritten letter and a picture with a familiar couple. Unlike the picture of Sojiro’s sister and her husband hanging in the living room, this one has a small infant nestled between them.

The photo reminds her of the Sayuri. Neither Sojiro’s sister nor her husband are as attractive as Inari’s mother, but they have the same soft expressions, the tenderness of unconditional love and immeasurable bliss.

Had her own mother ever looked at her like that? Back when she was small, with pudgy cheeks and large eyes. Before she could walk and talk and ask why Wakaba had to work so much.

Probably not. Futaba never knew her father, and Wakaba never mentioned him. Ever since she was born, Wakaba likely looked at her and saw nothing but a horrible mistake that would drag down her career and drain her bank accounts.

_Sojiro,_

_I report good news. Denji stays asleep eight hours for half the week! You’re lucky you skipped this diaper and crying business with Futaba._

_He’s starting to walk, which is terrifying. Gave Ryuta a heart attack when he fell and skinned a knee. Didn’t help that Denji was dramatic with his bawling. I’m looking up theatre classes for him. He’ll be a star actor for sure._

_We’d love for you to visit before he gets old enough to think I lied about having a brother. Ryuta’s starting to wonder if he hallucinated meeting you._

_Yours truly,_

_Shigeko_

Futaba folds the letter and replaces it in the envelope. She leaves the picture on the table. How old was Denji now? One year, two? Young enough that Sojiro’s never met him. He hasn’t gone anywhere since he adopted her.

Her stomach sinks. How many other letters or texts or calls did Sojiro have from family and friends besieging him to visit? Invitations he’d deferred and rejected with flimsy excuses.

Because of her.

_You’re a burden_ , whispers Wakaba. _He’s abandoning his true family because you’re too pitiful to leave by yourself._

“Shut up,” says Futaba, gritting her teeth. It’s redundant, voices in her head telling her what she already knows.

When Sojiro returns with a blue bottle of pills, Futaba waves the photo at him. “Your nephew’s ginormous.”

He glances at the picture, and a small smile forms on his lips. “Spoiled rotten already.” His voice has an air of wistfulness.

_It’s regret. He wishes you were gone so he could see his blood family._

“Why haven’t…” She clears her throat. “Why haven’t you visited him?”

Sojiro sits at the table and picks up a resume. “Babies aren’t my thing. They can’t wax lyrical about my coffee.”

_He’s a bad liar._

“He’s older now. He has more interaction options than he did as a drooling paperweight.”

Sojiro shakes his head. “Denji’s not potty-trained. I’ve come this far without learning how to change a diaper, and I’d like remain ignorant a while longer.”

Futaba gets up. She walks to Sojiro and drapes the photo in front of the application in his hands.

She cannot, will not, lose Sojiro the way she had Wakaba. Wakaba had hated her because Futaba got in the way of her true love, her research. That’s a variable Futaba can control.

“You should see him,” says Futaba. She squares her shoulders like the generals in her historical dramas giving a speech before the final battle. “And your sister, and her husband. You need to teach them your curry recipes. They can make a big batch and reheat it throughout the week. That’s a cheat code for new parents.”

Sojiro lets go of the resume, and it falls on the floor (Futaba hopes a raven breaks through the kitchen window and snatches it for a nest). “Did you want see them too?”

Taking a train to a different city to visit lovey dovey strangers - Futaba tries not to scoff. “I’ll be fine here.”

“Tokyo’s more my scene,” says Sojiro, reclining on the chair. The indecision warring on his face negates the relaxed manner he’s aiming for. “I don’t fancy going to a rural town in the middle of nowhere.”

“I’ll be _fine_ ,” she repeats. She taps him on the head. “I’ll stay here, play a gaming marathon, and pass out. Same old same old, rinse and repeat.”

Sojiro looks down at the picture with the sister he hasn’t seen for two years and the nephew he’s never met. He doesn’t speak.

Futaba draws herself up, grabs Sojiro’s chin, and forces him to look at her.

“I can use a microwave. Just make me a bunch of curry. Heck, Ina - Yusuke can survive on one bowl for the whole week. Worst comes to worst, I’ll ask him for survival tips.”

* * *

“Call daily,” says Sojiro, swinging his duffel bag onto his shoulder. “If I don’t hear from you by 22:00, I’m calling the cops.”

“I could be in bed by then.”

“You’d sooner sell your computer.”

Futaba grins and waves Sojiro goodbye.

He takes one step onto the porch and stops. “I should make more rice,” he says with a hand on the door. “There’s not enough.”

“There isn’t space for rice after you stuffed the fridge with liters of curry. I can use a rice cooker.”

“Which only works if you use the right water to rice ratio.”

Futaba sticks out her tongue. “Who cares if the rice is mushy? It’s gonna be covered in curry anyways.”

Sojiro, who had taught her the basics of meal prep when she was smitten with cooking simulators but had failed to impart any subtleties of taste, sighs. He points to the motion sensor by the door. “Make sure you check the batteries on this daily too.”

He had refused to leave without installing a security system complete with face recognition, auxiliary sirens, and professional monitoring. It only runs on batteries in a power outage, but Futaba nods anyways.

“Get outta here old man.”

Sojiro gives her one last hug. With his bags bulging with stuffed animals and light-up toy instruments, he plods to the station. Once he’s out of sight, Futaba retreats inside.

She lingers by the door and glances around the house. It’s a bright day, but the sunlight filtering through the windows lengthens the shadows on the furniture. The air vent hums - was it always this loud? She never usually notices it. The hairs stand up on the back of her neck. She can’t shake the feeling that this is an ideal time for an animatronic suit to jump at her.

Futaba swallows and turns on all the lights. They’re LED, so Sojiro won’t have an aneurysm when looking at the electricity bill.

Really, it’s the same house with or without Sojiro. When her erratic sleep schedule doesn’t match his Leblanc shifts, she goes days without seeing him. This shouldn’t be any different. Won’t be.

And she’s not completely alone. She never truly is, with her Medjed family and online friends, though she doesn’t always remember it.

**Alibaba** : When am I getting more fan art???

**Inari** : I was attempting to draw Johanna, but I am displeased with the compositions. I have not progressed beyond the sketching phase.

**Alibaba** : Omg spill!

Her tracking app is open next to the chat window. Inari’s blinking light moves, too fast to be walking.

Futaba fiddles with the code and superimposes the subway lines on top of her map. Inari’s movements coordinate with the Hanzomon line.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Futaba is aware this is weird behavior. Not that it’s stalking. It isn’t. She’s not following him anywhere, or sending him unwanted fish bones, or stealing his art pencils. She likes knowing where Inari is, at all times. That’s it. Though she values her online friendships, and most of them live in Tokyo, knowing the face behind a username is… different. A similar feeling to when she beats up an enemy without taking any damage.

Anyways, even if she is being creepy, it’s no more creepy than asking random women to draw them. Unlike those women, Inari would never know about it. So really, she’s counter-balancing Inari’s innate creepiness. Perfectly justifiable.

**Inari** : <img_Johanna_WIPs>

It shows six colored sketches, all of Johanna about to run down the viewer in dramatic angles.

**Alibaba** : Dude what are you talking about? These are sooooo good! The bottom right one’s my fave.

Inari stops at Shibuya.

**Inari** : The perspective for that one is off. The vanishing point is supposed to be in the right third quadrant, but the front wheel’s converging line completely misses it.

**Alibaba** : Explain like I’m not an obsessive artist please.

He sends her another image with the offending wheel circled in red and a frowny face.

Futaba zooms in and out. She flips the image (she read somewhere that helps artists spot errors) and rotates it the full 360 degrees.

**Alibaba** : You circled the wrong thing. The wheel’s fine.

**Inari** : You should get your vision checked.

Inari’s light shifts along the Den-en-toshi train. The second stop on that line is Yongen-Jaya.

Futaba opens the tracking app on her phone and dashes to the front door. She stuffs her feet into her sneakers without bothering to undo the laces.

Holding her breath, she tries to bring her heart rate down. The Den-en-toshi line has twenty-something stops. It's statistically unlikely that Inari’s coming here. But what else would reel him to west Tokyo? If he wants to go lobster-gazing, he’s on the wrong train.

**Alibaba** : I have 20/20 vision.

Corrected 20/20 vision counts.

**Inari** : Then I fail to understand how you could miss the error.

**Alibaba** : You need to apply a Relax Gel for your confusion.

**Alibaba** : Render that one, it looks great!

**Inari** : It would be a mockery to myself, my school, and anyone who has ever believed in my ability as an artist to have that associated with my name.

**Alibaba** : ٩(͡๏̯͡๏)۶???

The light stops at Yongen-Jaya. Futaba activates the alarm and heads out.

* * *

Futaba and Inari arrive at Leblanc at the same time (the station is further away than her house, but his longer legs make up the distance). He waves when he spots her. Futaba stops three meters away.

“It’s closed,” she says. Futaba grimaces. Inari’s not illiterate. He can read the sign and see for himself that it’s closed.

“Sojiro’s taking a small vacation,” she adds, so she’s not only peppering him with superfluous info. “He’ll be back Tuesday.”

“A pity. I was looking forward to a cup of coffee under the gaze of the _Sayuri_ , although I do not begrudge him the time off.” He runs a hand through his hair, which might be a wig given how not a single strand rebels out of place. With the amount of hairspray he probably uses, the ozone layer must be grateful he was born after the Montreal Protocol.

“He’s seeing his nephew. He’s cute.” In Sojiro’s picture, the infant had actually been wrinkly and blotchy and in the middle of blubbering snot, but she’d given Sojiro a white lie and so gave Inari one too.

“You didn’t go see your cousin with him?”

“Oh, I - no.” Futaba steps back, wishing the ozone layer was gone so she could melt into a radioactive puddle. _What kind of horrible daughter are you? You don’t care about Sojiro’s family. No wonder none of your actual blood relatives wanted you_. “We’re not, uh, our blood’s different. He adopted me. I mean, doesn’t matter, he’s still my dad. He’s family. But not the cousin. Er, nephew. His nephew.”

Futaba coughs and burrows her hands into her pockets. Maybe they’d fit her head too. Doesn’t typing use up more brainpower than talking? How is the one so much faster, so much easier to form the words, than the other? She has more time to consider her words on the computer, but she never needs it. She can launch a hundred words per minute of banter or jargon-loaded programming discussion without a second’s delay. With an hour’s worth of preparation for talking, she’d consider it a hard-earned victory to get out more than an ‘um’.

Inari doesn’t suffer from the same affliction. “How wondrous,” he says, “to establish such a strong connection without the ties of blood. Your relationship with him is proof that no matter how poorly fate deals your origins, in the end you choose your family. I wonder…”

Silence. He could be thinking about Madarame, about his dead mother, or about how well a squirrel could balance without its tail.

Futaba takes another step backwards and cracks an errant twig.

The snap shakes Inari out of his reverie. He grabs his chin. “I suppose I could go to Inokashira park. A coffee stand owner there will give me a free cup if I sketch his cat.”

“Seems fun.” One more step towards her safe room.

“You are free to join, if you wish.”

Futaba halts.

That’s a bad idea. Terrible. Apocalyptically dreadful. She’d been halfway into fleeing with the two of them there and no bystanders around. On this bright and clear Sunday, Inokashira park would be full of locals enjoying nature. They’d have to take some sort of public transport to even reach it, which means a lot of strangers in an enclosed area.

Not to mention she breaks out in a cold sweat whenever her brain decides to give her a debuff of self-loathing and dredges up memories of the museum fiasco. She hasn’t upgraded her equipment anywhere near enough to attempt a second try, especially without her tank of Sojiro.

It’s a calamitously horrible shell of an idea. Worse than drinking orange juice after brushing your teeth, worse than choosing a party group all weak to ice, worse than buying pet lobsters instead of food (or 99% of any other commercially available items).

The alternative is that she can be alone, with Wakaba’s snarling voice.

Her traitorous idiot of a mouth says “S-sure.”

Inari’s eyes widen, and Futaba realizes too late he hadn’t expected her to say yes. The offer was made out of politeness, the same sort of offer when teachers had forced her classmates to ask her to join their games. The students had been nice and tactful about it, but they hoped for a no so they could play without an awkward intruder. She’d always given them what they wanted.

Years of seclusion must have deteriorated her ability to read body language, because without a press-square-to-react-normally trigger, Futaba had missed all the cues here. Squirming, she tries to spit out ‘never mind’.

Before she can clear the lump in her throat, Inari smiles and says, “I will be grateful for the company.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My eyes were blurring towards the end of the editing phase, so please let me know if there are any errors :)


	10. Excursions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …these are getting longer and longer. I hope you enjoy word vomits, and if you don’t, know that I too would love to return to those peaceful days of 1K word chapters.

Futaba’s done dumb things. Most harmless, like printing a three hundred page walkthrough when she’d only meant to print page thirteen, which listed each villager’s favorite gifts. Occasionally they resulted in punishment, like when she left raccoon poop in Wakaba’s research papers, hoping the stink would keep her mother from work and she’d play with Futaba instead.

Going to a park with a broke artist easily ranks in the top three stupidest things she’s ever done, and Futaba can make a strong case for number one. She seizes a handful of the back of Inari’s shirt.

He looks over his shoulder. “Why—”

“You walk too fast! Can’t keep up. Dunno how to get to Inokashira, don’t wanna get lost.” The words escape in one breath. Futaba gulps down air.

Inari slows. “Is this pace sufficient?”

“Good. Great.”

Her fist remains in his shirt. Inari reduces his pace to an octopus stranded on land, but she doesn’t let go. He eyes her hand for two more steps and stops. Futaba, attention focused on getting her autonomic nervous system to pick up breathing, walks into him.

Inari goes rigid. Futaba backs up, swallowing the glimmer of hurt. His reaction is understandable and unexpected. To him, she’s just the daughter of a man who gives him free food.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

“It’s alright,” he says, the strain in his voice belying his words. “I am simply unused to physical contact.”

“What, Madarame never hugged you?”

“No.”

Surprised, Futaba glances up at the back of his head. “Never?”

“He was not an affectionate man, except when I provided a painting he deemed adequate for his exhibits. Even then, his praises always accompanied a demand for more.”

Futaba had figured Madarame would’ve shown some sort of paternal affection for Inari. Sojiro hugged her all the time, and she didn’t contribute nearly as much to Sojiro as Inari had to Madarame. And Inari had been so protective of Madarame…

“He was such an ass.”

Inari lets out a hollow chuckle, and Futaba realizes she’d spoken out loud. She flushes, but he doesn’t rise to Madarame’s defense. “It was easier to see his true nature after I’d been removed from the situation.”

Futaba relaxes. Inari remains tense, though at least his discomfort is a general aversion to touch and not a barb aimed at her. Still, Futaba doesn’t release him from her grip. She feels awful about it - knowing close contact makes him uncomfortable yet doing it anyways is a dick move - but she’s lightheaded and her ears are ringing. If she has to stand by herself here, a terrifying distance away from her house or Leblanc, she will faint.

But she owes him an explanation. “I, um…I don’t like crowds. They make me nervous. Especially on public transport. And without Sojiro, so I...”

The only thing stopping her from banging her head on a brick wall is that the closest one is five meters away, and she’s not letting go of Inari to do it. She’s such an idiot. He’ll laugh at her and call her a coward, and ten minutes ago, that would have been utterly humiliating. Now, she’d embrace the label if he’d drag her back to Leblanc.

Unfortunately, Inari says, “I understand. I myself was nervous at first presenting my artworks for criticism. Only after practice did I grow accustomed to it.“

‘No, you really don’t get it. I’m minutes away from throwing up, and you’ll hate me when you’re picking out Hello Kitty-shaped cereal from your shirt, and you’re not broke enough to recycle that low quality of food into your diet.”

That’s what Futaba wants to say, but he’s moving again, and the metro station is in sight. Why doesn’t it have a locked gate, or an invisible wall, or some other deterrent so low-level players don’t wander in? She clamps her mouth shut. She doesn’t want to drench Inari in acid even if she really, really wants to go home.

Inari halts in front of the subway turnstile and takes out his subway pass. Futaba brightens a minuscular amount. Trying to sound disappointed, she says, “I don’t have change. Guess we’ll have to turn around and—”

“No worries,” says the security guard. He pushes a button, and the gate opens. “Head right on through.”

“I, er, uh…”

“Thank you very much,” says Inari, which is not the correct interpretation of Futaba’s stammering.

The chattering din of the crowd envelops her, chokes her. Futaba stares at the floor. If she doesn’t see the people around them, they don’t exist...but she can’t miss the loud roar of the arriving train. She moans, though the incoming train drowns it out.

The commuters exit.

Last chance to back out.

Futaba struggles with excuses to leave - she forgot to walk her cat, her CPU needs icing, she has to check her shower curtains for mold.

Before any can make it to her mouth, Inari walks inside. Futaba, clutching tightly, follows. She should let go, should cut her losses before he drags her to the third act of this escalating disaster, but he’s the only person she knows in this swarm of strangers. He’s no Sojiro, but she’s out of options.

The doors close.

Futaba raises her head long enough to scan the interior, then yanks Inari to the corner.

“Oof.” He tries to turn around, but he can’t finish the movement with her vice grip on his shirt. “You don’t want to sit?”

“Corners are cozier,” she squeaks. She tugs him to the left, to better block her from the rest of the subway car.

He tilts his head then sweeps his gaze around. “I see what you mean. From here, I have the optimal angle to study the other occupants unnoticed. Doing so from the middle might alert them and cause them to change their behavior, thus rendering my observations unnatural and useless.”

“Um. Y-yeah, exactly.”

“I cannot believe I have never considered this before. You have a gift for artistic technique.“

A small burst of warmth radiates through her. It’s an odd feeling, especially when combined with her simultaneous desire to curl up in a ball and scream.

Then the train moves, and all positive feelings vanish. Futaba squeezes her eyes shut. The darkness magnifies the train’s roar - is this dangerous for her hearing? How is public transportation legal?

The train slows and stops. Inari taps her on the arm. Futaba opens an eye, and he motions to the exit. Over already? That…wasn’t so bad. Yes, she’s a pungent odor away from vomiting, and yes, she’s shaking enough to be mistaken for a jackhammer, but she didn’t faint, piss on herself, or claw Inari’s back into thin ribbons of flesh.

The station’s exit is hard to miss. The mass of people flocks to it with precision, as if each person has a yellow arrow pointing there alongside a number counting down the steps to the goal.

To Futaba’s horror, Inari diverges from the crowd and heads deeper into the dungeon. She tugs on his shirt, but Inari plods on. Tugging harder, she yanks his shirt out of his pants.

“The transfer to Inokashira is this way,” says Inari, rolling a critical failure on his perception check. “The water fountain at that corner has a slight metallic taste. None of the other fountains suffer from the same blight, and I’ve often wondered why. Since they’re all in the same building, they should have the same water supply.”

Futaba whimpers. She’d thought it was a straight shot from Yongen-Jaya to the park. This is a boss battle, with the Retreat option grayed out. Could she reactive it? With her parched throat, she lacks the mana to issue a verbal command. She could text him ABORT MISSION. Would he freak? Or even notice? Most commuters fiddle with their phones, but Inari hasn’t looked at his once.

He steps onto the train and drags Futaba with him. She digs her heels in but fails to slow him. Though Inari isn’t muscular, her strength stat is her lowest modifier (Futaba wonders if her intellect is just as low).

Inside the train, all corners are occupied. One seat remains, and Inari gestures for her to take it. Futaba sits on the edge, as far away from the neighboring passenger as she can be without falling off.

She hauls Inari in closer. He stiffens but stays put, and she huddles in his shadow.

Futaba loses track of the stops. Each time the train slows, her heart leaps into her throat in the hope that this is it, this is where they escape. Each time, Inari stays rooted to the floor, and those hopes crash. She should check on her phone how long until Inokashira, but her stomach churns with the movements of the car - the swirling of the acid there is louder than the train’s engine - and looking at a screen would tip her hit points to zero.

Did Inari fall asleep? Her internal clock is overdue for recalibration after all-nighters for gaming marathons and coding projects. Even taking that into consideration, the time now is stretching longer than she thought possible -longer than the nights she waited for Wakaba to come home, longer than the days she hid from her uncle.

She’ll die here.

“Next stop: Kichijoji station,” says the automated message. “This is the last stop in the Keio Inokashira line. Please exit to the right.”

Inari turns. “It’s time to—are you…are you crying?”

Futaba wipes her eyes and shakes her head. She points to the doors. Inari hesitates, but she pulls him in that direction. If they fail to exit in time, if she has to ride another stop in this stuffy helllhole of a box, an auto-skill on the embarrassment level of Shitting Herself will activate.

He brings her to a bench, and she slumps down. With the awkwardness of one unused to crying teenage girls, Inari says, “I am sorry that I did not notice. Can I help in any way?”

“It’s nothing,” she mumbles. “Told ya, I don’t like public transport. I’ll be fine once we get outta here.“

It’s a lie. She hates the subway, but the museum stint proves the outside world is equally terrifying. However, Inari has the scrunched up look of someone blaming himself for something not his fault, and she doesn’t want that on his face.

He nods and leads her through the station. Kichijoji is by no means sparse, but Shibuya is one of the busiest stations in the world. In comparison, Kichijoji is the dungeon you accidentally skip and go back to later after conquering a higher-level area. It’s not easy, but it’s not the challenge it would be if she hadn’t seen Shibuya first, and her hold on Inari slackens.

Inari. He must think her a fool. Now that her tears are drying and claustrophobia is no longer a factor, embarrassment’s crushing weight hits her. Forget misshapen heads with blossoming fungi or bulbous giants with flailing tentacles or bright screens without a blue light filter, these memories are the ones that’ll keep her up at night. At least Inari only knows her, Futaba, as an amiable acquaintance. She shouldn’t have been high enough in his estimation to fall far.

As she wonders if a lobotomy could rid her brain of the part that feels abject humiliation, they head up an elevator. At the top, the light changes from harsh fluorescent to bright sunlight. Wind hits her, and Futaba inhales. The air is rich with fried squid and fresh bread.

They’re outside.

Mission complete.

The surge of elation doubles her over, and she finally lets go of Inari’s shirt. Alarmed, he lurches in her direction, but Futaba waves him off. She rode public transport. Without gouging her eyeballs out! She can’t wait to tell Sojiro. She should call him right now - oh wait. Talking on the phone while with company is rude. Her charisma score isn’t low enough to be that impolite.

Futaba straightens and clasps her hands. “See, s’all good, now that we’re out.” She throws him what she hopes is a reassuring grin.

Inari seems taken aback, but he tentatively returns her smile. “I am glad you are feeling better.”

“I am. Um.” She rubs her neck, smearing sweat into her skin. “Thanks for letting me hide behind you. It’d have been bad if you didn’t. People are sweaty and loud and pushy. Mushing them together is a no-go for me.”

“I quite enjoy observing others. Whenever I need inspiration, the variety of people traveling through Shibuya Station provide it. But I concede the sheer number can overwhelm the senses. Should I follow the haggard mother zigzagging her stroller through the crowds or the stately politician giving speeches in the square?”

“And it’s free, right?”

“Why, yes. That is part of the appeal.”

She chuckles. “Which way’s the park?”

“About 800 meters that way.”

Futaba eyes the street. Hell, if there’s this many pedestrians on a Sunday, she’s glad Inari didn’t decide on this impromptu journey on a weekday. She’s out of excuses to cling to him, but he might not notice. After all, she doesn’t know the way to Inokashira. If she doesn’t stick close by, she’ll lose him. “Let’s go.”

They stop at the coffee stand Inari knows. He doodles a cat dancing with a top hat and a cane, rips the page from his sketchbook, and exchanges it for a cup of coffee. He passes it to her. It’s warm, and the steam billowing upwards is inviting, but the smell is weak and suggestive of diluted coffee. A sip confirms her nose, but she drinks the rest anyways. It’s edible, so the brown sludge meets her standard for consumption.

For his own cup of coffee, he sketches the same cat again, this time wearing a pirate’s eyepatch and riding a giant lobster. The owner salutes him and bids them a good afternoon with a wink.

Inari flips through his sketchbook. As the papers rustle, Futaba glimpses a familiar sketch. She snakes her hand out and catches the page. “I like this one.” It’s the sketch of Johanna that she, as Alibaba, had pointed out earlier.

“You play this game too?”

“I, er—nope.” Shit. She must be loopy from car exhaust. To Inari, Futaba and Alibaba are separate people, and she can’t let the illusion dispel. “I, um, like motorcycles. They’re cool.”

“Vehicles have never interested me as a potential subject. Perhaps that is why I have been unable to progress on Johanna. Oh, that’s the name of this motorcycle in the game.”

Futaba knows Johanna’s entire stats progression from level 1 to level 99, and she bites her tongue in time to stop herself from reciting it out loud. Instead, she says, “You should make a full illustration outta this one. How’re you gonna get better if you don’t practice?”

Inari looks down at his sketch and shakes his head. “There is no point proceeding with what I know is imperfection. It would only cement poor habits.“ He clasps her wrist and removes her hand from his book.

Futaba rubs the goosebumps on her hand. Oh well. She’ll let the matter lie for now, then flank attack him as Alibaba. Hardly anyone draws Johanna. She’s not humanoid, and gamer artists interested in vehicles are probably out playing mecha games. But Johanna is cool, dammit, with her nuclear attacks and support healing skills, and Futaba will get her fanart.

They walk side by side. She doesn’t need to hurry to keep up with his long legs. Inari is so easily diverted by the crooked kanji of a tea shop sign, and the split metal chips on a lamppost, and the billowing chiffon skirt of a pregnant woman (he moves in her direction; Futaba seizes him back on course) that she could lie dow, roll the park, and still beat him.

Futaba doesn’t mind, even though what should be a ten minute walk takes thirty. Keeping him in check distracts her from the strangers around them. In fact, she barely notices them - no nausea, no sweating, no nerves. Inari is no Sojiro, but he’s a decent tank all the same.

“I’ve never arrived at Inokashira so quickly from the station,” says Inari, sounding like he expected to get here at sunset.

Futaba covers her smirk with a hand, and they enter Inokashira Park.

Vibrant cherry and cypress trees, as green as her backlit keyboard, tower against the cerulean sky. Lustrous sunlight streaks through gaps in the branches, chasing the shadows away and casting the underbrush in a golden glow. A lake shimmers in the distance. Her CPU can get this resolution with its graphic card (90K yen, used) and twenty HD texture mods, but it can’t mimic the crispness of the air or the refreshing smell of leaves thriving in the midst of summer.

Best of all, the park is expansive. That path ahead is wide enough that looping around the other people won’t require extensive rerouting.

Futaba skips to a nearby tree and rubs a hand along the trunk. The rough bark scratches her skin, proving it’s real. Proving that yes, she really did survive public transportation. She plucks a leaf. “Seamless frame rate, definitely 60 fps.”

“Sorry?”

She pockets the leaf and waves at the park before them. “It’s gorgeous.”

“It is, but I prefer the colors in spring,” says Inari. “Though cliche, the blooming cherry blossoms add a visual interest to the surroundings.”

“I’d like to see it.” Cliche it may be to visit cherry blossoms in the Tokyo parks, Futaba’s only seen them in postcards. Wakaba had considered spring to be prime interviewing time to screen upcoming graduates and wasn’t about to interrupt that for flowers.

“Your hair would clash with the pastel hues of the cherry blossoms.” His voice holds no scorn, but it has a parent’s concern for a child failing to consider the downsides of a non-lucrative career path. Kosei must not have enough bullying jocks to have trained him to withhold his unsolicited opinion. “Autumn would suit your coloring better.”

“I’ll wear a pink Featherman mask.”

“That pink is too saturated to blend pleasantly with the environment.” He holds his hands out and makes a rectangular shape with his fingers. “Although the juxtaposition between artificial and natural could make for a riveting piece.”

Futaba doesn’t quite get what he’s saying, but she hazards a guess. “Robots look cool in grass, you mean?”

“Yes.” He shifts his hands, framing the sky above. “I’m surprised you’ve never been here before. Kosei takes regular trips here for landscape practice.”

“I’ve visited once, with Sojiro and…” A branch shakes as a bird takes off in flight, but her mother’s shrill is silent. Futaba releases a breath. “And with my mother.”

“What does she do?”

“Nothing.” Futaba shifts on her feet, throwing dirt on her lime green sneakers. Wakaba’s last Christmas present before her suicide. “…she’s dead.”

Inari’s hands fall. “I apologize. I did not mean to dredge up unpleasant memories.”

She clears her throat. “It was a while ago.” Inari looks like he’s about to apologize again. Before he can, she says, “Trees, check. What else is here?”

Inari’s face remains contrite, but he accepts her change of subject and takes a left at the fork. They amble ahead, and the lake grows steadily in size instead of popping up suddenly like in her games with short draw distances. Futaba bounces on her feet so she doesn’t rush ahead. She doesn’t want to risk separation from Inari.

He points to a small pond isolated from the larger lake. “That’s where the swan stole my paint.”

Futaba dips her hand in. Ripples travel out from her fingers in waves that her best graphics mods couldn’t capture. She has games with prettier water graphics - deep, clear blues of a royal character’s hair and pristine snowflake-white foam - but this pond here, with its muddied banks and caterpillar-chewed leaves floating on its surface, has character that perfection doesn’t. “You should get a cat bodyguard for protection.”

Inari doesn’t answer. For one heart-stopping second, Futaba’s sure he’s abandoned her, but when she looks back, he’s scribbling in his sketchbook. She scampers back. Her hands quiver with the desire to latch onto him, to prevent him from moving a centimeter without her knowing.

She doesn’t. Her issues aren’t his problems.

What would it be like, to go on a simple outing without a second thought, without a demon of terror ready to claw her skull at a moment’s notice? To be one of the people riding the swan boats on the lake or crowding around the hungry ducks. Behind her, the melody of a street musician’s guitar mingles with children’s laughter. Was she like that once, when she came here last? Carefree and confident?

“It needs a rider,” he says.

With a start, Futaba snaps out of her thoughts. “What?”

“The sketch you liked.” He opens his sketchbook to Johanna. “The reason it’s such a poor picture is that it’s lacking a rider.

“Johanna doesn’t have a—” She coughs. “Does Johanna have a rider in the game?”

“No. I will write the company a suggestion to add one in an upcoming patch.” He looks her up and down with a critical eye. His gaze is intense. It’s as if nothing else has ever or will ever occupy his attention, as if he can screen her down to a dataset and analyze each byte by byte.

Futaba twitches and wishes she’d thought to check how many times Inari’s been arrested for stalker-ish behavior. After minutes of awkward (to her, anyways; she doubts Inari’s ever felt awkward in his life) silence, he finally says, “You’re too short. You would not match Johanna’s ferocity”

Or maybe the other girls didn’t bother calling the police and went straight to slapping him. “You’ll curse your height when you have crippling back pain.”

“I already have that,” he says blithely. “Not at the crippling stage, but more of a persistent annoyance. I suspect my easel is too short.”

“Why don’t you buy a new one?”

Inari blinks, like he’s never considered the possibility. “It’s a perfectly functional easel. The wood is sturdy and free of mold.”

“But it doesn’t fit you anymore. If you outgrow your shoes, you buy new ones. Same thing.”

Inari’s face is blank.

“You…do buy new shoes when your feet get too big, right?” Futaba narrows her eyes at him.

“I would have had to replace my shoes yearly to do that,” says Inari, confusion marring his features. “I have been growing too fast to do otherwise with your strategy.”

“Doesn’t wearing small shoes hurt your feet!?”

“I don’t mind. Pain has long been a harbinger for inducing creative talents.”

Futaba throws her hands up and rolls her eyes. She does it twice, to make sure Inari registers it.

Inari returns his sketchbook to his bag. “Your lifestyle choices are bizarre.”

“Take a poll. I’m not the weird one here.”

He opens his mouth, but instead of replying, he jerks to the side and tilts his head. Futaba follows his gaze. A couple feeding the fish in a blatant disregard of the signs, a squirrel dashing up a tree, a blonde teen sitting on a bench. Nothing to warrant antennas splitting out of Inari’s head and pointing in that direction.

“What’re you looking—”

With the focus of a locked-in laser beam, Inari splits off to the right and leaves Futaba standing stupefied in his wake. She speed walks after him, but the distance lengthens. Grimacing, she breaks into a run. “Hey, where—”

Her stamina meter’s too small to run and talk. She prioritizes the running. How the hell is Inari that fast? Sure, he has long legs, but shouldn’t having the build of a noodle interfere with his balance? Cause him to tip over?

Inari halts near the girl on the bench and waves his arms in an enthusiastic manner. The distance and her footsteps pounding on the dirt muffle Inari’s words, but whatever he’s saying is received poorly. The blonde jumps up with her ponytails swinging and backs away from him. Futaba reaches them in time to hear, “Nope, not interested. Also, I got pepper spray, so you can stay right over there.”

Panting, Futaba skids to a stop in front of them and doubles over. She puts her hands on her knees. An expletive-filled storm fills her head, but she lacks the breath to let it loose.

Concern floods Inari’s face. He moves to her, but the girl is faster. The blonde reaches her first and helps her to the bench. Futaba doesn’t like strangers, but at the moment she’d take a rotting snake corpse’s help over Inari’s.

The girl pats her on the back. Inari hands her a water bottle. Futaba takes a swig and gasps out, “What. The. Hell.”

“I am sorry,” says Inari, chagrined. If he’d had a tail, it would be between his legs. “When I saw this woman with the light dappling on her body, it was like looking at the Sayuri. Beauty like hers cannot be allowed to proceed unrecorded, so I rushed to her lest she escape my grasp. But I should have explained the situation to you beforehand.”

Futaba rubs her temples. The girl wrinkles her nose and might as well have ‘this dude is such a Creepy McCreepface’ stamped on her forehead.

Yusuke seems unable to read it. He turns to the blonde. “I implore you to reconsider your refusal. To find a bastion of pure passion such as you have is so rare. Do you not want to share it with others, to gift the world your naked beauty?”

Futaba groans. “Dude. You’re not wearing your high school uniform. Someone’s going to mistake you for an adult with bad intentions, and you’re going to be arrested.”

Imminently, if he doesn’t quit it. The blonde has her phone in her other hand, with a finger hovering over 1. Now that oxygen deprivation isn’t distracting her, Futaba feels the weight of the stranger’s hand on her back like a secret boss she’s yet to defeat. She holds still and tries not to flinch. The stranger is concerned and attempting to be helpful, even in the face of Inari’s weirdness. At the very least, that’s worth an explanation.

“He’s harmless,” Futaba tells her, focusing on Inari’s wounded look to subdue her desire to scoot away. “I know he sounds like a registered sex offender, but he’s just super obsessive about his art. Promise.”

The girl leans close to Futaba’s ear, and Futaba can’t stop a full-body flinch. The stranger misinterprets it and whispers, “If he’s got something on you and you need me to call 119, do a peace sign.”

“I’ve only had the police called on me once,” protests Inari, “for a matter unrelated to scouting potential models. The incident involved a stand of dragonfruit. I assumed it was donation food for hungry strays, so I took one and ate it. The owner mistook me for a thief and called the police. They let me go after I explained the misunderstanding “

Waves lap at the shore, hitting the sturdy rocks with soft splashes. The girl raises an eyebrow. “I…see you what you mean,” she says to Futaba. She shakes her head, then shoots them both a wide smile. “My name is Takamaki Ann.”

“Kitagawa Yusuke. If you change your mind later, I am a Kosei High student. My teachers would not mind having classes interrupted if you swung by. Once they look at your face, I’m sure they would understand my predicament and release me to paint you. However, if your change of heart occurs after school hours, I am most often at the Shibuya Station, near the—”

“Sakura Futaba,” mutters Futaba, more to interrupt Inari’s spiel than out of any interest in introducing herself.

Although…she doesn’t feel too bad, all things considering. Her Compulsive Fleeing meter is barely charged, at the yellow green level rather than the orange reds when she ran away from Inari previously. It may be the sun boosting her serotonin, or Ann’s Colgate worthy smile, or the +3 calming environmental effect of the surrounding trees, but none of the nerves that plagued her when meeting Ohya and Makoto in person haunt her here.

“Her father owns a delightful coffee shop,” says Inari. “You should swing by sometime and see the Sayuri. I am certain that if you saw what I was trying to recreate, you would jump at the chance to be my model and - oh! I almost forgot. I wanted to bring back some lake water for Jacques Cousteau and Zheng He, to give them a taste of the wilderness they left behind.”

He dumps out the remaining water from his water bottle and dashes to the lake’s edge.

“Aren’t Jacques Cousteau and Zheng He long dead?” asks Ann.

“I…I think those are the name of his lobsters.”

“Sorry, did you say lobsters?”

“Dunno where he got them. I know he paid for them, so at least he didn’t kidnap them from the nearest aquarium.”

“What a weirdo.”

Ordinarily, Futaba would agree. Wholeheartedly. But something about hearing another person say it puts Futaba on the defensive. “He’s passionate. It’s not a bad thing. Better that than to be some middling office worker hating his life.”

“You’re so cute.” Ann laces her fingers together and grins. “I love how well you’re taking it. Most girls would be super jealous if their boyfriend asked another girl to be his muse.”

“Uh,” splutters Futaba, who hadn’t recovered from Ann’s first comment (cute? Futaba did not want to be _cute_ ) before the second bombshell landed. “What?”

“It’s a breath of fresh air, honestly. You wouldn’t believe how catty some of the models at my agency can be.”

“Er—”

“We should be supportive, y’know, instead of backstabbing each other all the time. Especially over guys. That’s so last century.”

“He’s not my boyfriend!” squeals Futaba.

Ann’s jaw drops. It’d be comical, if Futaba had the energy to find humor. “You’re not into him?”

“No!” Inari turns around. Futaba mouths ‘it’s nothing’ to him and lowers her voice. “No, definitely not.”

“Huh.” Ann sounds confused. “I’m never wrong about this stuff.”

“You’re wrong this time,” says Futaba, crossing her arms.

Ann clucks doubtfully. Futaba is about to further argue her case when her phone buzzes.

Inari: <img_132>

It’s a picture of the lake, sparkling with golden specks as it reflects the sun’s rays. Near Inari’s feet, orange koi gather with open mouths, causing miniature whirlpools to spiral towards the surface.

Inari: The game’s greatest weakness on a visual standpoint are the water graphics. Though reality cannot be completely captured, it does such a better job in everything else that the lack of detail in the bodies of water is quite jarring.

Alibaba: The vanilla textures are trash, but mods can fix that. I’ll share you my favorites when I get home.

“Is that your boyfriend?” asks Ann, motioning to Futaba’s phone.

Futaba shoves it into her pocket. “No.”

Inari saunters back toward them, saving her from this mind-numbing conversation. This topic shouldn’t be allowed anywhere outside of middle school bathrooms.

Ann’s watch beeps, and she stands. “I got an appointment to keep. Nice meeting you,” she says to Futaba. To Inari, she says, “You’re something, alright.”

“We can escort you to Inokashira’s entrance,” suggests Inari.

“Really not necessary.”

“I insist.”

Ann glances at Futaba with a cornered look. Futaba, who would’ve felt more charitably towards her if their last conversation hadn’t happened, only shrugs.

With a heavy sigh that would have anybody but Inari politely backtracking on the offer, Ann beckons them to join her in what turns out to be a thirty minute pitch on why she should let Inari paint her. Has this ever worked for him before? Even the most patient of high priestesses would be tempted to jam their staffs up Inari’s butt. Towards the end, Ann shows signs of cracking, if only to shut him up.

When the entrance sign comes into sight, Ann breaks into relieved smile. “Thanks for coming with. I’ll be heading out. Enjoy the rest of your—”

Ann’s smile vanishes with the speed of a transporter device. Her gaze locks in on an approaching teen, also with blond hair - dyed, rather than Ann’s natural locks.

The boy scowls. “Ann.”

“Ryuji,” returns Ann, with the coldness of a Bufudyne spell.

As far as Futaba knows, Inokashira Park doesn’t have crickets, so the chirping in her ears must be her brain supplying its own soundtrack to fit the mood.

“Do you know each other?” asks Inari. Futaba thanks his complete inability to read the situation.

“My classmate.” Ann sounds like she regrets the fact. “At Shujin Academy.”

“Ah, the school in the Aoyama-Itchome ward? Do you know a Niijima Makoto?”

“Don’t mention her name to me,” snarls Ann. The venom in her voice could poison a quiver’s worth of arrows. “Makoto’s useless.”

Futaba flashes an incredulous stare at Ann. She had disregarded the emails she’d snooped in Makoto’s inbox, figuring the honors student was another victim of negativity screaming loudest. Makoto is strict, sure, and a tad too serious, but useless isn’t on the first five hundred words Futaba would describe her with.

Inari must share her thoughts. For once, he’s at a loss for words.

The hum of a rattling motor breaks the silence. A car parks at the entrance, the exhaust pipes spitting black smoke into the sky. The windows roll down to reveal a muscular man with bushy black hair.

Kamoshida. Futaba’s seen pictures of him, with gold medals around his neck and lifting trophies in triumph. None of them had the lecherous smirk he’s wearing now. Futaba shuffles back, angling herself behind Inari.

Ann heads towards the car like a woman readying herself to get her hands chopped off. Ryuji grabs her arm. “Don’t do this.”

Ann yanks herself out of his grasp. Kamoshida’s gaze fixes on Ryuji, holding his glare with a grin so smug and so punchable that Futaba’s surprised Kamoshida’s nose isn’t permanently broken.

After Ann gets into the car, Kamoshida rolls the windows up and drives away.

“Dammit!”

Futaba jumps at Ryuji’s shout. The boy kicks a nearby tree, and it sways haphazardly. A pair of birds flutter in the branches and squawk at him. Ignoring both the wildlife and the dirty looks thrown at him from bystanders, Ryuji punches the trunk with quick strikes.

Her uncle flashes in her mind. Hitting the walls, leaving dents in the plaster. Hitting the couch, tearing holes in the fabric. Hitting her. With each thump of Ryuji’s fist on the tree, Futaba remembers another bruise, another cut. Her lips quiver.

Inari moves in between Futaba and Ryuji, blocking the other boy from her view. It doesn’t muffle the loud smacks and, shaking, she grabs onto him. He sticks an arm out, shepherding her away.

“Let’s leave,” he says.

Futaba nods, not trusting herself to speak.

As they move, a black-haired woman appears.

No.

No no no no no no _no_!

She’s done so well today. She’d been looking forward to reporting to Sojiro. Would she never rid herself of this curse to take three steps back for every one step forward?

 _It’s been years since you’ve seen your uncle, says her mother, each word dripping with scorn. Are you still haunted by him? Are you_ that _weak?_

Futaba grinds her teeth down. They return to the street, with its vendors and pedestrians and noise.

_Kichijoji is hardly Shibuya or Shinjuku. You can’t even handle this?_

“Shujin Academy ought to exact stricter discipline for its students,” says Inari. “Kosei would never tolerate behavior like that.”

Futaba manages a small grunt. Wherever she looks - at the sign of Inokashira park hanging above them, at the smoothly paved roads ahead, at the brightly-colored magazines hanging at a stand - her mother is there.

Inari looks to the sky, using the sun to judge the time instead of pulling his phone out. “I suppose it is time to return to my work. Do you know which lines to take from Shibuya back to Leblanc?”

That’s enough to shock Futaba into speech, and she splutters, “Y-you’re not returning to Yongen-jaya?”

“That would be an extraneous route back to Kosei. My dorms are in the opposite direction.”

“I’ve got lots of food in the fridge,” blurts out Futaba. In this state, she might survive alone in the secluded comfort of her room, but her hit points will nosedive to below zero if makes the journey there alone. “Sojiro made a bunch before he left. Too much. You should come have some. It’ll get moldy if someone doesn’t eat it. Might as well be you.”

Inari visibly brightens. “If you’re sure I won’t be a bother?”

“N-none at all!”

_Ruining yourself is acceptable, but to drain someone else’s time for your own sake? You’re so selfish._

“To the station, then?” he asks.

“I-I’ll get us a car. This way, I can pay with a card, s-since I don’t have a subway pass or change.”

“You can purchase tickets at the station with a card.”

“D-don’t worry about it. Y-you already know I don’t like the trains.” Futaba fumbles with her phone. She doesn’t have any taxi or ride sharing apps already installed, and she wills the progress bar on the downloads screen to go faster. She needs to get out of here.

While they wait, Inari chats amicably about the subtle flavors of each type of Sojiro’s curry he’s had so far. Futaba contributes nothing to the conversation, but he seems content to ramble to himself.

The taxi finally arrives. She scampers into the back and draws her feet onto the backseat, splattering dirt onto the leather. The driver glares at her through the rearview mirror, but Futaba’s past caring about a potential one star passenger rating. Inari diverts the driver’s attention by asking the material construct of his jacket and how well it holds the blood-red dyes. Their conversation is difficult to hear over Wakaba.

_How much is this going to cost Sojiro, all because you can’t use public transport? Even though a million other people can ride it without throwing a fit._

By the time the car drops them off at Yongen-Jaya station, Futaba’s swallowed rising acid three times. She staggers out and clutches Inari’s arm. He reflexively twitches, but she clings on. Eventually, he stops pulling away and holds her steady.

_Selfish little brat._

Inari must be uncomfortable, because he’s silent as he leads her through the station. Futaba wishes he’d talk. Without a distraction, dizziness washes over her, and their surroundings press in. She’s aware of every stranger around her, a policewoman with cropped brown hair, an elderly lady rushing to the trains, the middle aged man in a blue cap.

Futaba’s breath hitches, and her head whips around. The stranger isn’t her uncle, but her legs give out anyways. She lets go of Inari’s arm and falls.

Inari reaches out to her, but he’s too late. She hits the floor hard, slamming her shoulder onto the floor. Her glasses bounce off her. Hopefully they’re not broken. She likes those glasses. Sojiro had helped her pick them out…

“Futaba?” Inari kneels to her. When she doesn’t respond, he shakes her gently. “Futaba?”

Shadows cluster around.

“Is she okay?”

“Course she isn’t, arms aren’t supposed to bend that way!”

“Anyone have an ice pack?”

_Always the troublemaker._

The clink of heels taps on the tiles, and a woman pushes her way through the crowd. “Stand back! Give her room.” Her voice is full of authority, that of a lioness staking its claim on her territory.

The mass dissipates.

“I do not know what happened.” That’s Inari, his words laced with an edge of panic. “She fell, and her eyes are open, but she won’t talk. I—I think she’s hurt. Should I call an ambulance?”

Futaba wants to tell him that it’s fine, she’s fine, this happens all the time. She’ll get over it.

Warm hands turn her onto her back. Not Inari’s. His hands run cold. He’s still there, with a wide-eyed look that’s more ruffled than she’s ever seen him. Next to him is a somber face framed with a teal bob.

‘Sojiro,’ Futaba tries to say. She needs Sojiro, not a hospital with more strangers and the sterile white sheets so far removed from her own colorful room.

_Go to the hospital. Any decent doctor there will drain your blood and donate it to someone who matters._

Before she can try again, Futaba passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for getting through this blob, and happy holidays to you all!


End file.
